


Setting Sun Hall

by kissteethstainred



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/F, F/M, Family, M/M, Modern Royalty, Modern Royalty AU, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PLS READ AT UR OWN RISK, Slow Burn, THIS FIC WILL NEVER BE FINISHED, Various Friendships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:10:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3665139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Royalty AU where the Gallaghers are a royal family and Ian meets the Milkoviches at a bar/restaurant.</p><p>Just when Ian was about to reply, someone approached the table. It was a young woman, probably early twenties, with pale skin and dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. She had a nose piercing, and when she approached the table she began digging into the small black apron tied around her waist for a pen. Ian froze, unsure of what to do—she was about to recognize him, how couldn’t she?</p><p>“Hi, welcome to The Setting Sun! My name is Mandy, and I’m gonna be your waitress today,” she began, smiling when she found a pen in her apron, and then she looked up. When her eyes found Ian’s face, her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit,” she said, eyes wide, and then a little bit louder, “Oh my god. Holy shit.”</p><p>
  <strong>EDIT!: THIS FIC WILL NOT BE CONTINUED. IT WILL FOREVER BE A WIP. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.<strong></strong></strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Profession of War

**Author's Note:**

> So, wow, this is very scary. My first multi-chap fic . . . I'll be honest, I'm SUPER NERVOUS. I'm hoping to stay with this fic, but you may see me write other ficlets while writing this at the same time. This is definitely going to be a ride, guys, so support of any kind would be wonderful! Kudos, comments, etc. :) 
> 
> Special thanks to [Brianna](http://arthurspendrragons.tumblr.com) for being my beta and sending me positive feedback on this fic when I was worrying. Special thanks continued to [Ellie](http://mickeysupset.tumblr.com) for being my cheerleader on this fic (I'm sure it's only going to continue) and never letting me forget that someone is excited for this fic! Pretty sure that without her initial excitement at my headcanons this fic wouldn't be a thing. 
> 
> Man I feel like Bilbo rn . . . "I'm going on an adventure!" That is kinda what this feels like, so. Bear with me, everyone. I have AP exams and the end of his school year coming up, and my schedule may be hectic. Have patience with me. I'm gonna try and stay on top of this fic, but hey, life happens.

A prince must have no other objective, no other thought, nor take up any profession but that of war, its methods and its discipline, for that is the only art expected of a ruler.

-Niccolò Machiavelli, _The Prince_.

* * *

When the clock hit thirty minutes, Ian knew he had outsmarted Lip.

When they were younger, they would all meet in Monica and Frank’s bedroom, but they didn’t call it that then. When they played hide-and-seek, they called it the “Base.” If you were found, you had to meet back at the Base.

Monica and Frank always started out as It, there was no way around it. “I’m gonna count to fifty,” Frank said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and all the children screamed that it wasn’t enough time, that he had to give them more time, so he raised the number to one hundred. One hundred seconds to run around the castle and try to find a hiding spot.

Liam hadn’t been born yet, and every Gallagher kid—from Fiona to Carl—believed that Carl was going to be the last one. Debbie and Carl were still relatively young, so when they left the room, Carl grabbed for Ian’s hand and Debbie grabbed for Fiona’s. Lip never took any of the kids—he considered the game a competition. Lip always had to be found last, and if he wasn’t found last, he would become angry and even more competitive. He liked to outsmart them all in hide-and-seek, and any time they would call “Olly-olly-oxen-free!” he would never come out.

Carl grabbed Ian’s hand and Ian dragged him through the castle: where were they going to hide? They could hide in any of the bedrooms—Debbie’s room, Carl’s room, Ian’s room, Fiona’s room, Lip’s room. They could hide in the family dining room, or the State Dining Room, but Ian couldn’t remember which rooms were open for tour today. The Throne Room and the Ballroom were definitely off limits, because they were always on the tour, but Ian couldn’t remember anything else. There were more than ninety guest rooms in the palace, but which ones were on tour? Which, of the seventy-two bathrooms, were open? Fuck. There was nowhere to hide in the Gallery Room, especially not in the Hall of Portraits, but there were hidden passageways. They weren’t allowed to hide in those passageways, not since Debbie hid in there and couldn’t get out. Where to go?

“Come on, kitchen,” he told Carl, switching directions. The family kitchen was never on tour in case they needed to get food. The actual kitchen, which was almost like a restaurant and could serve up to two-hundred people, was on the tour. Of course.

The upsides to playing hide-and-seek in the palace was that there were so many rooms that the hiding options seemed endless. On days where there weren’t any tours, they spent the entire day playing hide-and-seek in the palace. A single game could take fucking ages, especially since Lip never wanted to be found.

The downside to playing hide-and-seek were not only the tours but also the clean rooms. Every room was kept in pristine condition, so there weren’t many hiding spots in a single room. The kitchen, though. Ian could hide them both in the kitchen. He opened up cupboard after cupboard before opening one that was empty save for a few hand towels. “Think you can fit in there?” he asked Carl, and Carl nodded and slipped inside. When he gave Ian a thumbs up, Ian closed the door.

Ian hid in the pantry himself, mostly because he was sprouting up and couldn’t hide in many of his old places before. Debbie and Carl were small enough that they had every opportunity in hiding places. Lip, Ian, and Fiona were taller, but they were skinny and could squeeze in places. Ian was just beginning to grow taller than them, something that annoyed Lip to endless degrees.

But that was what they did. Days where they were snowed in, or even rainy days, or random, lucky days in the summer when it was way too hot to go outside and there weren’t any tours, they played hide-and-seek in the palace.

Lip was the most competitive though. He was found last that round with Carl and Ian, and he never failed to gloat about it—not that it was something to gloat about, but Lip thought that is was. He thought of hide-and-seek as something that was analytical, watching for patterns in their hiding spots. He told Ian years later, when he’d found Ian in almost five minutes and Ian had been dumbfounded, that each sibling had idiosyncrasies: Fiona couldn’t hide in small places but she could run far, and she was good for slipping in skinny spots. Ian was good at hiding in high-up spots because he could reach them. Debbie and Carl hid in small spaces. Monica and Frank usually hid within a couple of rooms of each other. Patterns.

Lip used to keep a small notebook with tally marks of how many times he’d been found last. Eventually he lost the practice, just boasted about it whenever they brought it up—sometimes it was annoying, as everyone already knew he’d been the best, but other times it was a welcome relief from the memory of Monica.

Lip and Ian had played hide-and-seek in the castle so many times, just the two of them, that Lip knew all of Ian’s best hiding spots. Well, sorta. Ian’s hiding spots in hide-and-seek usually made the foundation for his hiding spots now. And Lip was Ian’s best friend, so of course he knew where all of those were. Still, point was: Lip knew where all of Ian’s best hiding spots were, and so Ian was surprised that it took Lip thirty minutes to find him.

When Lip finally opened the door, Ian reached for the cigarette and lighter he’d had on the windowsill. Lip paused when he saw that Ian was actually in the room, sighed, and said, “Fucking figures, you dick.” He closed the door shut behind him and walked over to Ian. “Thought you were quitting those,” he said, pointing to the cigarette in Ian’s hand as Ian lit it.

“I am,” Ian said, putting down the lighter. “This is for you.”

Lip stared at Ian’s outstretched hand before chuckling and plucking the cigarette from Ian’s fingers. “Thanks,” he said, nodding at Ian, and he dragged the chair from Ian’s desk over to sit down. He leaned forward on the back of the chair, cigarette dangling from his fingertips.

“Drop that on my carpet and I’ll kill you,” Ian said, going back to his old position of leaning against the wall, just in the right spot to look out the window and still be in the shadows of his room. He watched Lip blow smoke out of his mouth and opened up the window. “Is thirty minutes a new record?”

“Thirty minutes?”

“It took you thirty minutes to find me,” Ian said, grinning. Lip snorted, looking out the window and pretending to look cool. “Admit it, I outsmarted you.”

Lip laughed. “Well usually when you run off, you’re in one of your little cubby holes.”

“Exactly why I came here, so again: I outsmarted you.”

“Yeah, alright man, you got me,” Lip said. “Doesn’t make up for all the years where I whooped your ass.”

Ian glared at him before taking another drink from his beer. “Totally not the point,” he argued.

Lip and Ian were quiet for a couple more moments, before Lip looked around the room again and commented, “So, holed up in your room, all the lights off except for one light source from the window, it’s completely fucking dark and gloomy in here, you’re standing by the window and wallowing over your life . . . pretty emo, Ian, even for you.”

“Fuck off,” Ian said immediately, looking back out the window.

Lip sighed, or maybe he exhaled smoke. Ian couldn’t tell. “Rejected again?” he said softly.

Something twisted in Ian’s stomach. “What the fuck do you think?” Ian demanded. “You think I’d be acting emo if I was accepted?”

“Oh, totally,” Lip said. Ian went to glare at him again, but Lip’s grin made him smile a little too. “Right up your alley.”

Ian took another sip of the beer. His stomach continued to tie in knots.

“Fuck them, or whatever,” Lip said, shifting on his chair. The chair creaked, wood protesting. “You don’t need them. They don’t deserve you.”

“Seriously?” Ian turned to face him. “That’s the best you can do?”

Lip leveled a glare at Ian. “You see anyone else here? No? Then yeah, you’re gonna have to deal with my shitty advice.” He took a slow drag of the cigarette and Ian rolled his eyes. Leave it to Lip to be dramatic as fuck when Ian was upset. “What excuse did they give this time?” Lip asked.

“You didn’t read the letter?” Ian asked.

Lip shook his head. “I came into the sitting room and everyone was there except for you. I ask everyone what happened, because they all look relatively upset, and Fiona raises up a piece of paper and says, ‘Ian received a letter from the army.’ Well, if you weren’t there—” Lip flicked some ash onto the carpet. Ian made an annoyed noise of protest. “I knew what had happened.” He ignored Ian’s annoyed noises and dropped a couple more flakes of ash on the carpet. “So what did they say?”

Ian gave a derisive laugh. “They didn’t even have a good excuse this time,” Ian said. “I mean, before, I can understand them rejecting me because I was seventeen. I get it. And the last time they said they didn’t want me to join up yet because they thought that the best course of action was for me to go to college first. It was bullshit, but I fucking did that.” Ian glanced out the window again. Nothing had changed. “This time, they didn’t even bother covering it up. They basically said that they didn’t want to accept me because I was a prince.”

Lip frowned, eyebrows furrowing together. “What the fuck?” he eventually said. “Since when do they care about who they take into the army? They accept fucking high school dropouts and shit.”

Ian dropped his voice, mocking what a commander would sound like. “ _Dear Ian Gallagher_ ,” he said. Lip grinned. “ _We regret to inform you that we cannot take up your offer of joining the National Army due to external factors that must be taken into consideration, namely that of your birth_ —”

“That’s bullshit,” Lip interrupted. “They fucking said that?”

“Basically,” Ian said, taking a last gulp of his beer. “I mean, I always knew the reason they were rejecting me was because I was a prince. At least they finally had the guts to say it.” He laughed again. “I mean, I must be the only person in this fucking country that actually has to send in applications and shit for signing up in the army. Jesus. You just sign up. But I have to go through all this bullshit.”

They were quiet for another moment. Ian clenched his jaw and looked out the window. It was just—fucking ridiculous, almost unbelievable.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Lip said.

“They don’t want to be held responsible,” Ian said, not moving his eyes from outside. He’d been staring at the same picture for the last thirty minutes, because no one was ever out on the palace lawns. Unless it was the Gallagher kids outside, or people coming inside, but otherwise no one was ever out there. “If I get killed, they don’t want to be held responsible for it.”

“That’s even bigger bullshit,” Lip said. “What about—”

“—all the other other people who get killed in the army?” Ian finished. Lip nodded. “Which is why their excuse is so fucking dumb. So they’re not responsible for those other kids? They just don’t care about their lives?”

“They’re probably worried about the media,” Lip commented.

“Aren’t we all,” Ian said dryly. He was right, though, because there wasn’t a fucking day where the Gallagher family wasn’t worried about the paparazzi and the media.  

Another quiet pause.

“I’m sorry,” Lip said. “For you not getting in. Again.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ian scoffed. “I know you hated me going into the army. You and Fiona both, so fucking relieved when I get rejected.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes you are,” Ian pressed. He felt vindictive, hands curled into fists and nails digging into his palms. “You could never be excited for me when I ever got promoted in ROTC or—”

“God, will you shut up?” Lip interrupted, looking irritated. “Look, yeah, Fiona and I don’t like you going into the army. But when it comes down to our dislike of the army and your fucking happiness, Ian, it isn’t a contest at all. We all want you to be happy, and we’re sorry that you didn’t make it into the army. Okay? We’re sorry as fuck.”

Ian looked at Lip. His brother was doing that thing where he looked Ian straight in the face, spoke calmly and directly so that Ian would feel soothed. Ian wanted to let that comfort wash over him, but at the same time, it rubbed him the wrong way. He didn’t want to feel placated.

“You done?” Lip asked.

“With what?”

“Drinking beer and holing up in here.”

“It’s been only thirty minutes,” Ian said, feeling childish. Lip didn’t fucking understand the pressure and heartache Ian felt now. He’d wanted to get in so fucking badly, and he thought he’d fucking had it in the bag. He’d gone to college like they’d wanted, got his degree, and had aced any physical he’d needed to take—physicals, he knew at the time, that had just been ways to stall, but he’d played along anyways—and he was so sure he’d had it. He’d been so fucking sure, so sure that he knew now that it had only served to raise his hopes and expectations. Fuck.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t _know_ , Lip,” Ian said, exasperated.

“You can’t just do nothing,” Lip said. “Convince them.”

Ian couldn’t believe his fucking ears. “Did you just—I’m not going to use my fucking power to force them to enter me into the army, Lip! I’m not gonna _buy_ my way in.”

Lip scowled at him. “That’s not what I meant!” Ian raised an eyebrow at him, disbelieving. “Look, when I first yelled at you about the army when we were sixteen or whatever, you were upset. But then two days later you sat me down in this very room and yelled at me for over an hour explaining why you wanted to go into the army and everything you’d done to get there and how you wanted to be a fucking officer.” Lip shook his head, blowing out more smoke. “Do that same to them. Call them out on their bullshit. _Convince_ them that you deserve it.”

Ian stared at his brother for a little before sighing. He felt tired, suddenly, hearing about his sixteen year old self talking about his hopes and dreams for the army. Little did he fucking know it would be so much harder. “You can only hear the word no so many times,” Ian said.

“What the fuck? So what?” Lip exclaimed. “You giving up? That’s not you, Ian. You don’t fucking give up.”

“Says who?”

“Says you, you dumbass! You yelled at me for an hour just so I would accept you going into the army and even if I didn’t, you were gonna do it anyways. You worked and worked so that you were in shape. When they told you to go to college, you went because you wanted it and you worked for it. You don’t give up. Why the fuck would you now?”

And that was Ian’s last straw. He knew Lip was trying his best to comfort Ian, but he couldn’t deal with it anymore. “Will you get the fuck out of my room?”

“Ian—”

“No, I’m fucking done!” Ian exclaimed, turning towards Lip sharply. “My patience has officially worn out and I’m fucking done. I’ve had enough for today. Let me wallow in my hurt and pity, just—just fucking go away, Lip!”  

Lip and Ian stared at each other, neither backing down, before Lip caved in. He turned away, mouth twisting unpleasantly, and stood up, pushing the chair back in place. It dragged awkwardly on the floor. Ian stood by the window, stiff and upset, until Lip walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him pointedly. Then Ian sagged back against the wall and stared at the burning cigarette Lip had left on the ashtray.

Fuck.

* * *

Ian woke up with sunlight suddenly shining directly on him.

“What the fuck?” he grumbled, turning over so that he faced away from the light.

“Oh no, you don’t!” Fiona’s voice said, and then all the covers were being pulled off of his body. Ian didn’t even fight it, just made some tired groaning noise in protest. “Seriously?” she exclaimed, and then a large weight bounced and landed on the bed. Ian felt Fiona’s chin rest on his shoulder. “Iaaaaaan,” she sang.

“Go away,” he groaned.

“Not today!” she said, squeezing his side. He squirmed and mentally cursed her—she knew that was a ticklish spot for him—and tried to elbow her back. “I’ve let you sleep in and do nothing all day for five days now,” Fiona said, kicking him lightly in the calf, “and I’m not allowing it today. You’re helping me on the Council.”

Ian groaned as dramatically as possible. “No way. No fucking way.”

“Ian. Come on, I need your help! You know what they say—people are most productive when they’re sad!”

“That’s complete and utter bullshit.”

Fiona laughed and sat up behind him. “I know, I know, that was bad. I’m serious about helping me out today, though. I could really use it.”

“Isn’t that what Lip is for?” Ian asked. They all had jobs, really, in helping out Fiona. Fiona had multiple duties as queen, and some seemed so tedious for her to have to deal with, so Lip and Ian tended to pick up where she couldn’t handle things. One of Lip’s main duties was to help Fiona out at the Council, a group of nine men and women who acted as advisors to the crown. They came together at regular meetings to deal with issues in domestic and foreign policy. Fiona, as queen, was almost always required to go (there were only few exceptions to that rule). Lip was her right-hand man for many reasons. Lip was older, so he had been able to get on the Council before Ian could. As the first born male, Lip was second in line to the throne (in the years where Fiona had still been a princess, he had been first in line), and so Lip had to be prepared for any type of shift in power and assuming the power himself. Ian had always been focused on going into the Army and never dealt well with the politics of the Council. Ian hadn’t minded, because all the Council politics bored him to no end, and Lip actually liked arguing with middle-aged to older people.

Leave Lip to the politics of the courtroom and Ian to the politics of the battlefield.

Only it wasn’t turning out like that. Ian was rejected from the army again, and Fiona was asking Ian for help on the Council. Fuck.

“Lip isn’t around,” Fiona said.

“Why does that sound like Lip it totally around, but you made up a lame ass excuse so I would help you?”

Fiona sighed. “Okay, that I _was_ serious about. Lip hasn’t been around the castle that much lately. Haven’t you noticed?”

Ian frowned. He tried to remember seeing Lip around the palace lately, past the five days he’d stayed in bed. Lip had been around for every dinner, but Ian couldn’t exactly place his whereabouts during the day. Then again, Ian had been busy with training, waiting anxiously for the army’s letter, and hadn’t been paying attention to Lip. Ian turned over to look at Fiona. “Where is he going?”

Fiona raised one shoulder. “Who knows? I haven’t asked him yet. Do you think I should?”

“It’s not like Lip to disappear during the day,” Ian said, considering. “Then again, we don’t stay in the palace all day, sans me this past week. Is it because you don’t know where he is?” Fiona played with the comforter, not meeting Ian’s eyes. Ian grinned. “Aahhh, I see how it is. Don’t worry, Lip is a big boy. Wherever he’s at, I trust him.”

“You’re not worried?” Fiona asked, giving him a look that was almost disappointed.

“I mean, I’m worried,” Ian said. “Especially if I hadn’t noticed it before. But I don’t think he’s, you know, getting up to bad shit. He’s probably hiding away in some lab somewhere. Or fucking some girl.” Ian tried to sit up a bit, before pausing and looking at Fiona. “Has he stopped job searching?”

“I don’t think so,” Fiona said. “So I don’t think he has a job and going there. Wouldn’t he tell us, anyways?”

They were both quiet for a minute or so, before Fiona took the pillow next to Ian and smacked him on the face with it. “Get up and get ready and all that. You are helping me on the Council today. I need you there.” She climbed off the bed, smoothing out her skirt when she got off. As she left, she pointed at Ian. “And no more drinking and sleeping for five days straight. You’re not in college anymore, got it?”

“Got it,” Ian confirmed. When Fiona left, he sighed and fell back against the pillows.

Time to stop ignoring the real world.

* * *

This was another thing Ian hated about the Council: he couldn’t yell at them

They seemed to enjoy yelling at each other, first of all. If that wasn’t annoying as fuck, it almost seemed like they started arguments over the dumbest things so that they could keep arguing over it. “Councilwoman Johnson, what do you mean you don’t want to pass the bill? Your vote is no?” Cue a thirty-minute argument on why they couldn’t possibly say yes or no to that certain bill. Ian hardly even understood half of the bills they put forward—sometimes he didn’t actually understand what they did, and sometimes he didn't understand the point of trying to pass a bill that will only help a select few, especially when there are people who need more help than others.

Yelling at them would be undignified, not that Ian gave a shit about that when he got this angry (or bored). Lip was better at it, he knew. He’d say a witty comment on it or would actually find something wrong with the proposal, or he’d do what Ian wished he could do: outright question why the proposal is necessary in the first place, and in such a way that he could get away with it.

Ian wanted to scream “Shut the fuck up!” _so_ badly.

Their grandmother was the worst. Ian didn’t know what was weirder: accidentally calling her “Grammy” in front of the entire Council, or having to grit out “ _Councilwoman Peggy_ ” when addressing her. She had the highest position in the court, presiding over the entire Council, and she usually made the final decisions and approvals or disapprovals. Besides Fiona, she was probably the most powerful person in that room.

“I can see that Councilman Murphy can’t come to any conclusions,” Grammy said, interrupting an argument between two councilman. They immediately stopped their conversation, and when one of them opened their mouths to argue against her, she said dryly, “And what a _pity_ it is. Don’t you think so, Councilman Marcus?” He immediately shut up, and Grammy allowed a small moment of smugness before shuffling some more papers on the desk.

Ian was quietly proud of her, and then horrified at the thought that this was what Lip was going to be like in fifty years. Or if Grammy had her way, Lip, Debbie, and Carl. Jesus.

“Onto our last piece of business,” Grammy continued. Ian breathed a sigh of relief, and Fiona had to surreptitiously elbow him. _Sorry_ , he mouthed at her. Maybe he shouldn’t look so happy for Council to be over. “Fiona,” Grammy said, “have you put any more thought into what I mentioned to you last meeting about marriage?”

There was an array of reactions. Fiona stiffened, sucking in a breath, and almost immediately Ian could pick up on her anger. Ian himself turned to look at Fiona in surprise, because he’d never heard her mention anything about marriage. Many members of the council turned to Fiona expectedly, while others looked annoyed that the subject had come up at all. Grammy was looking at Fiona in a way that was supposed to look like she was waiting patiently, but it only looked condescending.

“I haven’t put any more thought into it,” Fiona said, clenching her jaw, “because my thoughts on it last time were final.”

Grammy’s smile faded. “Fiona—” Some members looked at her in shock, because not addressing Fiona with her title in the Council Room was considered a great offense.

“I will _not_ marry,” Fiona said, voice louder than normal but still acceptable in the room. “There can be no more words discussed on the matter.”

She began collecting the papers in front of her, furiously shoving them together and not caring about the order.

“Fiona, I demand you reconsider,” Grammy said, voice flat and hard. Fiona paused her movements, spine straight. “You cannot possibly be considering running a kingdom by yourself. You have limited experience in both domestic and foreign measures, you’ve had no previous example of in any way. You have no guidance—”

“Then what is this Council for?” Fiona interrupted angrily. “Is this Council null and void? Is it no longer in action? Because I’m thinking that with this current conversation and the ignoring of my input, _it should be disbanded_.”

“And you continue to show your immaturity in that single remark alone,” Grammy said. Fiona reared back as if she had been slapped. “You need experience. You need someone to balance you out. You need someone to stop your brazen rashness.”

“Rashness,” Fiona repeated, voice empty. Ian watched her warily—he hands were fisted by her sides, pressure turning her knuckles white. “I don’t know if it’s come to your attention,” Fiona said, “but I have five siblings to take care of. Five siblings and a whole _country_ to take care of. I will not be trifled with finding a husband, for God’s sake.”

“Two of your siblings are old enough to marry on their own right,” one Councilman put in. Ian shifted uncomfortably. “Two others are almost finishing high school. And Prince Liam is nine. They are not so much as a burden as you say—”

“—says the man, of course, who doesn’t actually care for these kids,” Fiona interrupted angrily.

“—and with all that you say you need to deal with, namely your siblings and your country, wouldn’t having a husband help you with those issues?”

Councilman Murphy added, “Especially helping you with the country.”

“Because women must be the ones to take care of the children, right?” Councilwoman Johnson questioned, giving him a sharp look.

“Do you wish to look weak to your people?” Grammy asked, voice loud and clear above the others in the room.

“ _Weak_?” Fiona exclaimed. The entire room fell silent. “You dare to call me weak?” She laughed, and it almost sounded like a snarl. “How old were you when you married, Grandmother? You were young, weren’t you? And so you were a queen so long as your husband stood beside you as king, and you had many children, all of them boys. All of them _princes_. And so when they became old enough, they superceded you and became the next kings, marrying another girl to replace you as queen. And so here you are, sitting on the Council, and telling me that I should marry?” Fiona shook her head. “I will not. I am strong in my own right—I’m the first queen to ever rule without a king in our country. You wish to take that away from me? You will not. I will not be like you. I am stronger. I’ll be _better_.” Fiona lifted her head, almost taunting. “You were queen once. _Once_. I am queen now. Remember who holds the power here.”

“Are you threatening the Council—?”

“This meeting is officially over,” Fiona stated, gathering her papers into her arms.

“Your Majesty—”

Ian stood up abruptly, chair skidding loudly on the floor, the sound grating on the ears. Everyone turned to look at him, conversation stuttering to a halt. “Earlier in this meeting we discussed moving some funding, an amount close to fourteen million dollars, over to education. This proposal was shot down by some of you in this room, and the bill will not pass.” Ian looked every member of the Council in the eye, staring down his grandmother the longest. “And now you’re proposing Fiona get married in an event that will cost, what? Fifty million at the least?” Fiona looked at him with a small smile on her face. “And you say Fiona is the one who needs guidance,” Ian said, raising an eyebrow at the court.

The room was quiet—no one seemed to be able to say anything in response—and then Fiona stood, looking around the room almost triumphantly. “This Council meeting is finished,” she declared, her tone of voice final. She left the room, Ian right on her heels.

“They been getting on you about marriage that much?” Ian asked as they walked brusquely down the hall. They both seemed to want to get as far away from that room as possible.

“More and more every meeting, it feels like,” she said, voice tired. “It’s so fucking exhausting, fighting them every day. I swear they don’t even listen to me. They just have me there because law accounts for it or some shit.” She took his hand in hers, squeezing tightly. “Ian. Thank you for being there with me today.”

Ian smiled at her, squeezing back just as tightly. “Of course.”

* * *

It was like someone pressed a button inside of Ian, because he suddenly loathed the idea of sleeping and not doing anything in the palace for five days straight. How could he have wasted so much time? How could he have locked himself in his room for so long? All Ian wanted to do now was get out of the fucking palace. Lip was gone more often than not—Ian did notice know how much he was absent, but Lip avoided any discussion on the subject—and Debbie, Carl, and Liam were all in school. Fiona seemed busy with everything—meetings with other dignitaries, hosting dinners for certain members of business people or high authority, dealing with piling paperwork, meeting with V and Kev. Ian didn’t know how she did it all. By the second day, Ian felt trapped and stifled in the palace, despite the many open-spaced rooms, and wanted out.

He hadn’t worked out in a while, so he grabbed some on some sweats, a jacket, and grabbed a hat, phone, and some sunglasses on the way out. The bodyguard at the back entrance, the door the royal family used to get out of the palace without any photographers catching on, stopped Ian by the door. “Going out, your highness?” he asked. “Have you alerted the Queen?”

Ian raised his phone. “Just texted her,” he said, putting the cap on and stuffing his phone into his pocket. The guard nodded and returned to his station when Ian put in his earbuds. Time to go fucking jogging.

* * *

The palace was surrounded by the inner city, which was less clustered than the outer sections of the city. The inner city was pretty small and felt close to Ian’s university days: bars and nice restaurants and little diners and cafes all mixed together, one or two clubs residing on the main streets, large movie theaters and opera houses, tiny ice-cream and yogurt shops, bookstores and movie rental places and grocery stores, and even two main parks (one of which Ian was running in right now). There were apartments in the inner city, but they weren’t clustered together, and they were well kept and pretty nice. The streets were interspersed with trees and plants along the streets due to a city planning act that had been released five or so years ago requiring more plants and eco-friendly designs. During the winter they strung up lights between the apartments so that they hung over the trees and hung bright ornaments in the trees. They hosted giant Halloween fairs on Main Street (which wasn’t actually called Main Street, but actually was St. Andrea Street after one of the Gallagher princesses who’d helped build the inner city, and yet everyone called the street Main Street). Ian loved the inner city.

It really was quite surprising how many people didn’t recognize him as he jogged through the park. Then again, it wasn’t as if Ian had his face fully open and a sign on his back that said “Hey, I’m royalty!” The sunglasses and hat covered him pretty well (as cliche as those disguises were, they worked), not to mention the fact that Ian was running pretty quickly.

There was also the fact that nobody actually expected one of the Gallagher princes to be jogging in the same park as them, so if they did think they saw Ian, they probably dismissed it anyways.

Ian’s side was cramping after about thirty minutes, but he pushed through it, remembering all of his drill instructors before him, remembering all of his physical trainers yelling at him, remembered berating himself for giving up by stopping. “ _You don’t fucking give up_ ,” Lip had said, and Ian pumped his arms faster and ignored his cramps. He remembered Fiona telling him the secret to dealing with cramps: mix up your breathing and stepping, because usually you exhaled or inhaled the same time as you stepped. That same pattern stretched a certain muscle over and over again, so change the breathing and stepping and you’ll be fine.

Lip had looked it up to make sure what she was saying was true, and when he confirmed it was, Fiona had grinned and said, “Of course I’m right, who’s the track expert in this room?”

Running was a strange thing for Ian at that moment. It reduced Ian’s stress and made him feel more free, less restricted by the castle walls, but at the same time it made him angry. He’d trained for so long—he had been training since he was fourteen, had been wanting this since he was fucking fourteen—and he was now fucking twenty-two and he’d been rejected by the army three times. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t thought that attaining something—the only thing he had ever really been good at—would be this fucking hard.

He paused when he got to the end of the trail in the park. This park was in the middle of the inner city, only about fifteen minutes or so from the palace, so he considered where to go from here. The other park was too far away for Ian at the moment, and he dreaded going back into the castle. Ian checked his phone—it was close to four thirty—so he decided to walk into the city. He kept his head down, but looked out for shops he could slip into without being noticed (admittedly, a little far fetched, but certainly feasible). He was lamenting the new trend of lightly lit rooms when he noticed a restaurant called The Setting Sun between a bookstore and an old antique store. The windows of the restaurant looked slightly tinted, so Ian opened the door and walked in.

The bar had low lighting in the way modern and fancy restaurants did, but it didn’t have that vibe. It felt more like a bar—it had a long, mahogany bar with stools to the right, booths lining the walls, and tables in the middle. The atmosphere felt happy, with people laughing and plates and silverware clinking. There was a large TV in the corner, and peanuts shells were strewn on the ground. Ian saw a booth in the corner of the bar, and the booth was almost completely hidden from the front door. Ian walked over to it, head down, and when he reached the booth he sat down with a relieved sigh. Ian was suddenly aware of how tired he was, and he took off his hat, sunglasses, and earbuds and threw them on the table.

He checked his phone and saw that Fiona had texted him: _you still out?_

 _yeah_ , he replied. _where are you?_

 _w/ kev and v, sadly not getting drunk_. Ian grinned. V was the head of the royal family’s Media Relations and Fiona’s best friend. “Not getting drunk” meant that they were probably in a meeting right now doing business with journalists or news stations. His phone pinged again: _no sign of #1. i’m thinking family dinner soon?_

By “#1,” Fiona meant Lip. Her code name for all the Gallagher siblings were numbers, going up consecutively by birth. Frank was 0. Monica used to have a code name, but it was hardly ever used anymore.

Just when Ian was about to reply, someone approached the table. It was a young woman, probably early twenties, with pale skin and dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. She had a nose piercing, and when she approached the table she began digging into the small black apron tied around her waist for a pen. Ian froze, unsure of what to do—she was about to recognize him, how couldn’t she?

“Hi, welcome to The Setting Sun! My name is Mandy, and I’m gonna be your waitress today,” she began, smiling when she found a pen in her apron, and then she looked up. When her eyes found Ian’s face, her mouth dropped open. “Holy shit,” she said, eyes wide, and then a little bit louder, “Oh my god. _Holy shit_.”

Ian swallowed, stomach sinking because he was about to be bombarded with people and questions and pictures, but then the woman just turned on her heel and walked away from the table.

Ian considered running. That was clearly the best option here, because he really didn’t feel like being outed in this restaurant. He just wanted to come in here and relax and fuck, she was already talking to someone else. She’d walked up to this guy, another waiter, Ian guessed, since he was just handing a couple of drinks to a table. He had dark hair like her, and she whispered something into his ear, pointing to Ian’s table. Ian shrank away when the guy turned to look, hiding in the booth, and thought, _I’m so fucking screwed_.

The crunch of peanut shells under shoes warned Ian of the guy’s approval, and then he was there. He stood next to the table and looked at Ian. “Holy fuck,” he said. His eyebrows raised. “It really is you. Holy fuck.” He stared at Ian for a little longer, in a moment where Ian was aware that he didn’t know where the woman Mandy had gone (was she calling anybody?) and then the guy shook his head, exhaling a bit. “Um, you want something?” he asked.

“Want something?” Ian repeated.

The corner of the guy’s mouth lifted. “Yeah, man,” he said, bringing out a pen of his own. Ian was a bit startled to see _fuck u-up_ tattooed on his knuckles. “Something from the menu?” He looked at Ian’s hands. “Ah, you don’t have one. I don’t really have one either—”

“That’s fine,” Ian interrupted. He didn’t have much money on him anyways.

“You’re sure?” the guy asked. “You don’t want anything? A drink? We got water, beer, and uh, some fucking coffee.”

“Coffee sounds great,” Ian said quickly. He was kinda shocked by the guy’s language but figured he really wasn’t in any position to comment on it.

The guy nodded, putting his pen away, and as he turned to leave, Ian heard him mutter, “What the fuck.”

If Ian left before getting the coffee, would it still be considered dine-and-ditch? Ian glanced at the door just as a bunch of young college kids walked in. Fuck. Ian turned back to his phone when it pinged again. _ian?_ Fiona asked.

 _family dinner sounds great_ , he typed back quickly, and right when he was going to get his shit and leave, the waitress approached the table again. “Hi,” she said, smiling at him nervously. “Look, it kinda hit me that the first thing I said to one of the people who run my country is _holy shit_ , and I can just feel all of my ancestors punching me in the face, so . . . yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“That’s fine,” Ian said. “The other guy said ‘holy fuck,’ so I think you’re pretty solid.”

Mandy smiled. “Siblings will be alike, I guess.” Ian nodded, smiling politely, and then she said, “Oh, fuck! Do you want anything?”

“I have a coffee coming,” Ian said, waving in the general direction of the room.

“Good!” she said. “I guess Mickey is a better host than I am. Fuck, that’s depressing.” She took a deep breath, looking like she wanted to say something, and then shook her head and said, “Well, I’m just gonna leave you here.”

“Wait,” Ian blurted. Mandy looked at him expectantly. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not gonna call any news stations or tweet that I’m here?” Ian asked.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused, and Ian breathed a sigh of relief. He relaxed back against the seat. She smiled suddenly, knowingly, like she understood what Ian had been fearing. “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that from us,” she said. “Anyways, I’ll bring your coffee out.” She turned to go, and then paused, turning back. “I’m going to apologize for my brother’s language too, because I don’t think that he will.”

Ian laughed, and Mandy walked away looking pleased.

There was another text from Fiona: _#1 isn’t answering my texts._

Ian sighed and called Lip. When he didn’t pick up, Ian shook his head and texted him instead: _lip, answer your fucking phone. where are you???_

Ian placed his phone back on the counter, looking around the restaurant some more. The tables were all a dark mahogany like the bar, and the booths were a dark blue that complemented the wood well. The walls were also a blue color, slightly lighter than the seats, and there was so much shit on the walls. There were old fashioned black and white photos of the city, and on one section of the wall looked like a hall of fame, with famous people or newspaper articles about the restaurant. And there were fucking license plates everywhere: a license plate from different countries or cities in the country, and most of them with different colors and sayings. One read “FUCKOFF,” and another said, “BUYBEER.” Some of them were obviously fake, but most of them made Ian laugh. There were also neon signs on the walls, mostly different beers but also varying open signs. There was a huge board with the menu on the wall overlooking the bar.

“And here’s your coffee,” Mandy’s voice said. Ian looked up in surprise—he definitely hadn’t heard her coming. She placed the coffee down with a tiny tray of sweeteners and sugars and then went to walk to another table.

He watched her talk to the guys at the other table. He could tell just by the people in here with him that it was popular with the younger, college crowd, and Ian could understand. The atmosphere was laid back, and it seemed a weird mix of classy and a laid-back friendly. The only two waiters seemed to be that Mandy and the other waiter (her brother, she’d mentioned), which seemed kinda weird to Ian, but whatever.

Lip texted back: _every1 is alive ok_

Ian rolled his eyes, tearing a sugar packet and pouring it in his coffee. He could practically hear the “get off my ass, Ian,” that was definitely underlying his text message. He texted back, _fuck i thought you’d finally died and i’d be 1st in line_ , but couldn’t help but be relieved that he was at least answering them. He texted Fiona that _#1 texted back. still an asshole_.

 _be nice_ , she said. Ian snorted, inspected the sweeteners, and then chose a vanilla one, ripping off the top and pouring one in his coffee.

He checked any social media, which he only went on every once in a while. It was ridiculous how many followers you could have just because you were a prince. Ian checked Debbie and Carl’s accounts—a habit he usually did when he was bored, or something he did at least once a week—and checked their statuses and retweets. They’d been instructed by V and the rest of the Media team on what was okay to post and retweet, while also warned of the dangers social media could be. “You’re always gonna get attacks and criticisms for shit you have nothing to do with,” V said. “Ignore them, don’t respond, or you’re just gonna be dragged into shit that I have to deal with.”

Carl and Debbie were good, though. They mostly just retweeted shit about high school or their friends or fashion, and so everything was pretty solid with them. Ian sipped his coffee while scrolling through Carl’s Twitter page, smiling at a picture of him and Liam that he’d posted.

He looked up when he heard peanuts crunching again. “Everything good?” Mandy asked, tucking some hair behind her ear.

Ian smiled. “Yeah, the coffee’s good.”

Mandy tilted her head, looking disappointed. “Come on, that’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I have a prince in my fucking restaurant, I want him to say something amazing. You know, like, ‘this is the greatest restaurant I’ve ever been to,’ or, ‘the service was impeccable and the food amazing.’ A little better than ‘the coffee’s good,’” Mandy said.

Ian chuckled, shrugging. “The others are true too!” he said.

“Well now I don’t believe you, asshole!” Mandy exclaimed, laughing. “Are you going to get anything else?”

“Probably not.”

She nodded. “I’ll go get your check, then.” Her ponytail swung behind her as she walked away.

Ian sighed, exasperated, when his phone went off again. It wasn’t Fiona or Lip, though; it was Carl. _r we still on 4 trainin?_ Fuck, Ian had completely forgotten. Carl was going through this craze right now with working out, even though he practically ran as much as Ian did (and as much as Fiona had) because he was on the track team. It seemed like Ian couldn’t be out of the castle for too long. Ian texted Carl back, confirming for training, and then finished off the rest of his coffee. He took out ten dollars—which he thought pretty much covered the coffee considering the board said it was only around three dollars—and left it on the table.

Before he left, he grabbed a napkin and a pen and wrote: _this is the greatest restaurant I’ve ever been to & the service was impeccable & the food was amazing_. He signed it with _prince ian_.

Ian put the sunglasses and hat back on and walked out when attention wasn’t fixed on him.


	2. The Empty Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian didn’t know what it was about this place that felt so calming, so relaxing, but Ian leaned back against the booth and enjoyed it. Maybe it was—Ian couldn’t really explain it. Maybe it wasn’t really this place, maybe it was just being out of the palace for a long amount of time. It made Ian feel like he could breathe easier. The Setting Sun was just a convenient place Ian went to that he knew he wouldn’t be found at, so he came in here again. 
> 
> It was easier that way, stress-free, and admittedly, the people and atmosphere of the place even added to it. It felt nice to joke around with people without worrying that he was being offensive, or that he wasn’t being “appropriate” for a prince, without worrying that his comment might end up in a newspaper or a site somewhere. He felt better over here, he thought as he sipped at his water, he felt almost normal. Whatever normal for him was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note on the ages of everybody in this fic: I took their ages in season 1 and added seven. Fiona is twenty-eight, Lip and Mickey are twenty-three, Ian and Mandy are twenty-two, Debbie is seventeen (and a senior in high school), Carl is sixteen (and a junior in high school), and Liam is nine years old (and still in elementary school). I think Svetlana would be about twenty-four/twenty-five. 
> 
> If you're having questions about either the Gallaghers as royalty or the Milkoviches & the restaurant, there will be explanations in later chapters about those subjects.
> 
> Beta'd by the lovely [Brianna](http://arthurspendrragons.tumblr.com) again. Thanks to everyone who has shown support and excitement for this fic! Kudos, comments, and etc. are greatly appreciated! :))

The proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.

― Jack London

* * *

“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you here again,” a guys voice said, and when Ian looked up, it was the waiter from the other day. Mickey was his name, Ian remembered.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Ian said. He gave a small smile. “The service here was, um, impeccable.”

Mickey laughed. “Oh yeah, we know.” He pointed to the corner where the wall of fame was, and Ian could just make out his napkin note framed on the wall.

“You seriously kept that?” Ian asked. A bit of panic began to creep in. “People can see that—”

“But will they believe it?” Mickey interrupted. “I mean, come on. The likelihood of a fucking prince coming into this restaurant and then leaving a note is pretty fucking low.”

“You’re two for two right now.”

“Out of how many days that I’ve worked here?” Mickey said, grinning. “What brought you back here?”

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted. Ian still felt the desire to be out of the castle most of the time, and he hadn’t really intended to come back into The Setting Sun. “It’s pretty empty in here, though.” There was an old couple eating in one of the booths behind him, and then another middle-aged woman at one of the tables.

“Probably because we opened about thirty minutes ago,” Mickey said. He raised an eyebrow. “Are you worried again? About people?”

Yes, but Ian was used to it by now. “It’s alright,” Ian said, waving a hand in a way that said _don’t bother_. “But, uh, thanks for not saying anything last time. And this time too, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to worry about that here,” Mickey said, a strange echo of what Mandy said last time, and continued with, “Besides, Milkoviches don’t snitch.”

Ian assumed that was their last name and just said, “Well, thank you anyways.” He pointed to the menus tucked under Mickey’s arm. “I see you’re actually prepared this time.”

Mickey looked down at the menus before rolling his eyes. “Hey, don’t call me out on my shit, man,” he said, pulling out a menu and holding it out for Ian to take.

Ian took the menu and said, “You have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

“Ah, yes, the famous impeccable service.”

“Well, it was mostly just Mandy. You were pretty shit.” Ian paused, horrified for a second because he just called this guy shit and that was probably not good for a prince, but Mickey just laughed.

“Fuck you,” he said, smiling and looking completely unoffended. Ian felt himself relax. “Taking favorites already, I see.” Before Ian could reply, he said, “I’m gonna go check on some other customers and then come back, alright?” Ian nodded and watched Mickey turn away to the other side of the room.

Ian looked over the menu, which mostly seemed like sandwiches and burgers mixed in with other classic bar food. The sandwiches had strange names, too: one was called The Alibi, another called Kneecaps, and another called The Milkovich. The grilled cheese wasn’t even called grilled cheese, it was called Basic Bitch. Ian glanced up at Mickey, wondering if it was this kind of stuff—the peanuts on the floor, the license plates on the walls, the allowance of using foul language, and the names on the menu—that added to the appeal of the place.

Considering Ian was charmed, he had to admit that it did.

Ian decided to ask Mickey about it when he came back. “So, do you speak to every customer liberally, or is that a requirement of working here? I’m confused,” Ian said.

Mickey rolled his eyes, smiling. “I’ve probably heard this a thousand fucking times,” he said. “Um, mostly it’s because that’s the way Mandy and I talk. And we’re not a bunch of people pleasers.” Mickey shrugged. “People like it, they think it adds to the atmosphere or whatever. And they like that they can cuss right back. I mean, there’s a line of course. If they use slurs or shit, we’re gonna stop them. But people are pretty cool about it all.”

“So, you’re mouthing off at them?” Ian asked, pointing to the old couple in the booths behind him.

“Like I said, there’s a line,” Mickey said, and then when he noticed Ian trying to fight a grin, he sighed. “You’re such an asshole. Aren’t princes supposed to be saints or something?”

“Only when there’s a camera in front of us,” Ian replied.

Mickey shook his head and gestured at Ian. “You pick something to eat?”

“Um, yeah,” Ian said, fumbling with the menu. “I was going to get a Milkovich, but without pickles or onions and . . . is it alright if I put avocados on there? And I noticed on another sandwich you have tomatoes and basil, can I add that instead?” When Ian glanced up, he saw that Mickey was pressing his lips together. “Are you _laughing_ at me?” Ian whispered dramatically, pretending to be offended.

Mickey let out a small laugh. “Uh, sorry,” he said. “It’s just, you changed it so much I don’t even think it’s technically a Milkovich anymore.”

“Well, there wasn’t much else close to it,” Ian said. He raised the menu and Mickey took it from his hands. “And a water, too, please.”

Mickey looked like he wanted to laugh at the “please,” but he just barely managed to hold it back. “You sure you don’t want a different type of drink? A side?”

Ian tilted his head. “You know, it’s almost like you want me to spend as much money as possible.”

Mickey grinned. “Look, when I got a prince in my fucking shop, I’m gonna try and squeeze as much money out of him as possible.”

“I’m glad you only see me as furthering your gross capitalist interests.”

“Says the dude who literally helps run this fucking capitalist economy,” Mickey said. Ian threw his head back and laughed, feeling lighter than he had in a while. It felt nice to tease and joke with someone, even about dumb shit like this.

“Go to your other customers, god,” Ian said, reaching out and playing with the salt shaker.

Mickey shook his head and said, “Giving me orders already, I see,” but his tone was light. Ian watched him walk over to another table, feeling warm on the inside. He watched as Mickey talked with the old couple again, and Ian bit the inside of his cheek when the old lady smiled and patted Mickey’s cheek like he was her grandson or something.

“Water,” a voice said, and a glass was put down right in front of him. Startled, Ian dropped the salt shaker—salt spilled over Ian’s hand and the table—and he looked up. Another woman was there, wearing the same apron Mickey and Mandy wore. She had brown hair and bangs, eye makeup bright and colorful but working rather well. She smiled at Ian when he dropped the salt and threw some napkins down on the table for him. Ian said “Thanks” and then brushed all the salt into one little pile. He stared at it, unsure what to do.

“What do you want me to—”

“Leave it,” the woman said, waving her hand. Ian nodded and settled back, but then noticed that she kept watching him, hands on her hips, her gaze hawkish and pointed.

“Um,” Ian said, wondering why she was staring at him. “Hello.”

“You are orange boy then?” she said.

“What?”

She gestured to his hair impatiently. “Redhead boy. Mickey and Mandy, they mention you.” She raised an eyebrow at Ian as he self-consciously touched his hair. “You are prince, yes?”

“Um. Yeah.” Ian cleared his throat. “You work here too?” Her eyebrow raised higher. Ian realized it was a pretty dumb question considering she had literally just delivered his water and was wearing the work apron. “Only because, well, I didn’t see you here last time—”

“I work sometimes,” the woman said. “Not always. Just sometimes.” She stared at Ian again, considering—was Ian supposed to find her this intimidating? Why was she staring at him like this?—before she turned around and left rather abruptly. She walked across the room and pushed through the door next to the bar area. Ian assumed it went into the kitchen, because Mickey came out of it a minute later with food in his hands.

Ian didn’t know what it was about this place that felt so calming, so relaxing, but Ian leaned back against the booth and enjoyed it. Maybe it was—Ian couldn’t really explain it. Maybe it wasn’t really this place, maybe it was just being out of the palace for a long amount of time. It made Ian feel like he could breathe easier. The Setting Sun was just a convenient place Ian went to that he knew he wouldn’t be found at, so he came in here again. It was easier that way, stress-free, and admittedly, the people and atmosphere of the place even added to it. It felt nice to joke around with people without worrying that he was being offensive, or that he wasn’t being “appropriate” for a prince, without worrying that his comment might end up in a newspaper or a site somewhere. He felt better over here, he thought as he sipped at his water, he felt almost normal. Whatever normal for him was.

“Your food,” the woman’s voice said. Ian moved his hands out of the way as she placed the plate down in front of him.

“Thanks,” Ian said. He paused, wondering if she’d be receptive, but then said, “I didn’t catch your name, before.”

She looked at him all hawkish again. “Svetlana,” she said shortly. She considered him for one more second before saying, “Anything else you need? I get—”

“Svetlana, what the fuck?” Mickey’s voice said. Mickey appeared next to Svetlana’s side, looking at her incredulously. Svetlana smiled at him like _what?_ , trying to appear innocent. “What the fuck is with the Russian accent? Why do you always gotta do this?”

Svetlana narrowed her eyes at Mickey, and then she sighed, almost relenting. “Why do you always have to ruin my fun?” she asked, accent completely dropped. Ian stared at her in shock. “I’m just trying to meet the famous prince you and Mandy keep talking about.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Beat it, will you? Try your accents on other tables.” He took his napkin and whipped her in the butt as she walked away, and she said, “You’re fucking paying for that!” back.

“So . . .” Ian waited until Mickey turned back to him. “She’s not Russian?”

“I mean, _technically_ , she is. But she doesn’t need to have the fucking accent.” When Ian gave him a blank look because he was still pretty confused, Mickey huffed and said, “She’s a linguist student over at the university seven or so blocks east. She knows, like, six languages. Every time she meets new people, she likes to talk in an accent to trick them. One time, she convinced this dude at her university that she was Hispanic for close to eight months before he finally found out. It was funny as fuck, but when you’re around her all the time? It’s unbelievably annoying.”

Ian laughed. “She sounds like a riot.”

“She’s a pain in my ass,” Mickey said, right when Svetlana was walking up behind him. She hissed something in another language that Ian didn’t understand, and Mickey snapped something right back at her. Mickey rolled his eyes as she walked away, before turning to Ian. “Why is there salt on the table?”

Ian shrugged. “Spilled it on accident,” he said. “Does she work for you guys?”

Mickey shook his head as he began to clean up the salt. “She’s my friend, we met a couple of years back, and I haven’t been able to get rid of her. She’s also Mandy’s . . . well.” He gave Ian a sly grin. “They’re not dating _yet_. Svetlana and Mandy are roommates, but they might as well be dating. Or fucking. Either way, they need to pick one and do something about it.”

“And you’re not pressuring them or anything, right?” Ian asked. “Saintly brother and all?”

“Please.” Mickey snorted, holding the salt in his cupped palm. “Like I could ever pressure either of them to do anything. They’d more likely cut my balls off.”

“Lovely.”

“Eh, it’s not so bad. That’s what you expect of siblings and best friends.” Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian. “Don’t you have like ten siblings? You know what it’s like.”

Considering that Lip was both his sibling and his best friend, yeah, Ian knew what it was like. “Yeah, Lip hardly uses my advice,” Ian said, thinking on the disastrous period of Lip’s life in high school known as Karen Jackson.

"See? That's what I thought." Mickey turned his head to the side, licking his bottom lip and surveying the rest of the room. “Anyways, hope you enjoy your fucked-up sandwich,” he said.

“Fuck you, I bet you that you’d like it,” Ian retorted.

Mickey waved his hand in a way that said _whatever you think_. Ian bit into the sandwich and said, “It’s fucking great, thank you very much,” and Mickey wrinkled his nose jokingly and went to help other customers.

Ian finished off the sandwich quickly—it was actually very good, fuck Mickey very much—and he was surprised by how hungry he was. Svetlana came over to fill up his water once, said, “Sorry that Mickey ruined the fun earlier,” like she and Ian had some type of inside joke. “Mickey said for me to ask you what else you wanted,” she said, “and then to push you to buy more shit even if you didn’t want to, but since he fucked me over I’m gonna do the same.”

Ian grinned. “He’s just trying to pimp me for money.”

Svetlana laughed. “I would do the same, honestly. You definitely don’t want anything else?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Well, then.” Svetlana took out the check booklet, small and black, out of her apron pocket. She held it out for him to take, but right as he reached for it, she pulled her hand back. “You should come back again,” Svetlana said.

Ian paused, arm raised in the air. “I probably would have anyways,” he said, which was true. He hadn’t planned it out or anything, but this place was easy for him to hang out in.

Svetlana gave a small smile, which made her eyes seem much less piercing. “Good. I like you. You’re fun and surprisingly not snobbish.” She allowed Ian to have his check.

“Uh, thanks,” he said. Her words felt strange, like she just gave Ian some type of approval. Ian didn’t really know what to do with it. Feeling tongue-tied, he added, “I’ll definitely come back soon.”

“Good,” she said again. Her demeanor changed suddenly, smile gone as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. She pointed at the check. “Mickey’s right, though. Bring more money next time, yes?” she asked, putting on the Russian accent.

Ian rolled his eyes, but said, “Yeah, okay. I will.” Ian would make sure that there would be a next time.

* * *

Ever since Fiona became queen, family dinners were somewhat of a rare event.

Actually, there were a lot of factors. When Lip and Ian were in college, it was harder for them to come home for dinners, and since Carl and Debbie and Liam would tell Ian and Lip over the phone that Fiona was busy, Ian assumed that they hardly had family dinners then, too. Now that Ian and Lip were back in the palace, it was easier for them to be available for family dinners, but Fiona was running the country by then, and her time could only be spent on certain events. Family dinners—full family dinners, with all the siblings there—could only happen every once in a while, and every time one happened, Ian was always reminded of how much he missed them.

Sheila Jackson always offered to cook the meal, and without fail, the Gallagher siblings ended up helping her in some way or another. Sheila was the head of the cooking staff at the castle, and she had been a part of the cooking staff for as long as any of the Gallagher kids could remember. Fuck, she and Monica had been pregnant at the same time with Karen and Lip, and the Gallagher kids considered her some strange type of godmother or something. Ian had very distinct memories of playing with Karen and Lip when they were toddlers. After Monica had left, she hadn’t filled the space, exactly, but she’d helped out: taught Debbie how to cook and treat herself, helped Fiona out by taking care of Liam when Fiona needed her to, cooking every Gallagher their favorite meal, even if they all liked different shit and it took her four hours. Sheila was loyal to them, and they loved her just as much back.

Tonight she was cooking a large plate of lasagna, which was something they could all agree on to eat. Fiona had been put on “time-out”—Sheila’s words and mandate—meaning that she had to sit on the barstool, drink beer, relax, and “Watch everyone else do the work for once, sweetie.” That was exactly what Fiona was doing now, and it was nice to see her looking relaxed: hair drawn up in a messy bun, wearing sweatpants and a regular t-shirt, and a beer already in hand. Sheila was instructing everyone else on what to cook. Liam and Debbie were arguing over which sauce would be best on their salad, and Sheila was showing Carl how to use the grater for the cheese. Lip and Ian weren’t really helping much—just doing tiny jobs that Sheila gave to them—but they were all in one room, and it felt normal again, like nothing had changed.

They avoided discussion about the older siblings, though. The five younger Gallaghers all came to the same conclusion that Fiona was already stressed out enough without all of them pestering her about her royal duties. Lip avoided any topic that related to jobs or projects he could be doing or where he was going off to. Ian’s latest dreams with the army had been shattered, and any discussion of his future was avoided.

Basically, it was Carl, Debbie, and Liam’s time to shine tonight, and they all accepted it graciously. Seeing the three of them talk excitedly about how they were doing in sports or school or relationships was comforting and relaxing.

“Have you decided on a college yet, Debs?” Lip asked, squeezing in between Carl and Liam to reach the fridge. He pulled out a beer and looked at Ian, who nodded, so Lip pulled out another.

“Not yet,” Debbie said. She stopped chopping tomatoes and leaned against the counter. “I think I’ve narrowed the amount of universities”—and thank god for that, Debbie had been looking at about fifteen colleges—“but I think I need to visit more colleges to get the feel of them, you know?” She looked to Lip and Ian. “How did you guys figure out which college you wanted to go to?”

“Had the best robotics and engineering program,” Lip said, shrugging. “Figured that’s pretty good.” Debbie huffed and looked at Ian expectantly. Lip raised his hands in mock offense, but Ian understood: Debbie was still unsure of what she wanted to study at college.

“Ian?”

“Um, I’m not really sure,” Ian admitted. “I just—I didn’t consider it going to college, you know? I considered it a job that I had to get done just to get into the army. So I chose a college that I liked and could deal with and offered pretty good programs.” Debbie was frowning, so it was best to end it now. “I’m probably not the best to ask about college, Debs.”

Debbie groaned. “And Fiona got her degree from online college courses.” Fiona smiled at her and shrugged, sipping her beer. “You guys are no help at all,” Debbie complained.

“You could always ask Karen, sweetie,” Sheila said from where she was spreading sauce over the pasta in the pan. “Karen had no clue what she wanted to study when she went into college, but she was able to narrow down her college choices to a top three.”

Ian watched Lip when Sheila mentioned Karen, mostly out of habit. For close to two years after their horrific break up—if it could even be called that, considering they weren’t in an actual relationship in the first place—Lip would physically flinch if Karen’s name was mentioned. He managed to hide the flinch, but he still had movements that gave away his discomfort: swallowing, turning his head, tapping his fingers. Now, he didn’t even move a muscle, didn’t use any of his tells, just casually watched Sheila and Debbie talk.

If anything, that made Ian slightly suspicious.

“I think I will,” Debbie said slowly, as if she was thinking over it as she spoke. “Karen ended up going into fashion merchandising, right?”

“Yes.”  Sheila took some of the cheese that Carl had grated. “And even then, it took her almost two years to settle on that. Don’t be afraid of indecision, sweetie. Sometimes waiting things out is better for the future.” Sheila smiled up at Ian, then. “The same can be applied to the army, Ian. Whatever gap you’re going through right now—it can be filled. And it will only help you for your future.”

Ian felt his stomach clench just at the mention of the army. He could see his siblings looking at each other uncomfortably, but that just made Ian a little angry. He could fucking deal with discussions about the army, so he grit his teeth, smiled at Sheila, and said, “Thank you, Sheila. I’m sure something else will take up my time.” Sheila was only ignorant on how hurtful discussions of the army was to Ian, and he could hardly blame her for it.

Besides, it was pretty hard to be mad at her.

“That’s good, Ian,” Sheila said, and she sounded so sincere, Ian almost felt bad.

Lip, thank fuck, changed the topic quickly. “So, Carl, how’s school going for you?”

Carl groaned. “Why do you guys always ask me this shit when my grades are shitty?”

Lip, Fiona, and Ian exchanged a glance. “Did something happen?” Fiona asked, leaning forward on the counter. “What are your grades?”

“All C’s except for one B,” Carl said, putting down the grater when Sheila lightly touched his wrist.

“That’s not bad at all, Carl!”

“You’re passing everything,” Liam said. Carl cuffed him lightly on the head, and Liam smacked him in the side in return.

“I wanna go into oncology,” Carl said, pressing himself against the counter when Sheila moved by with the lasagna to put it in the oven. “I’m a fucking junior. I need to have better grades than that.”

“Language, Carl,” Fiona reprimanded, looking at Liam.

Liam rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.”

“At least you know what you wanna do,” Debbie said, sullenly. She stopped cutting the tomatoes and picked up the cucumbers laying on the counter. “I have no clue.”

“If I have shitty grades and can’t get into the college that has the best oncology program, then there’s really no point.” Carl went over and picked one of her cucumber slices. Debbie glared at him. “At least you have good grades all across the board.”

“Do you need more help? Another tutor, maybe?” Fiona asked. When Carl wrinkled his nose and shook his head, she looked over at Lip and Ian. “Maybe your brothers can help you?”

“It’s mostly just missing assignments,” Carl said. Everyone looked at him, confused. He sighed. “I get annoyed, alright? They assign a lot of work, and reading it all is fucking tiring.”

Lip made a small, “Ah,” sound. Carl had dyslexia, and he struggled in school because of it, but he’d promised that he’d work hard. They’d even hired a tutor to help with his workload, but most of the effort still lay in Carl. They all knew that he wanted to work hard, but they also didn’t know what it felt like to have the disorder.

Sheila bit her lip before saying, “Well, I still think you’re doing wonderfully, Carl. Especially with your training.”

Carl looked uncomfortable when he said, “Thanks.” He stole another cucumber slice from Debbie and said, “Can we change the topic, please? Liam has something to share, don’t you, Liam?”

Liam looked like a deer caught in the headlights, frozen and wide-eyed. “Uh,” he said. “Um. We’re gonna dissect frogs in a week. In science class.”

“Are you excited about it?” Ian asked, noticing Liam’s faint frown. Liam was a hardcore animal lover. He always played with the castle’s dogs, and on occasion, some horses.

“I don’t really want to cut an animal open.”

“It’s already dead anyways, Liam,” Carl said. “I remember doing that when I was in elementary school. One group cut open their frog and it was pregnant. You could see all the tadpole bubbles in the stomach. It was cool.” Liam looked pretty nauseated, and Debbie didn’t look too happy either. Carl noticed and said, “Well, also sad, too. It was really sad. Some kids were really upset.”

“How about we not talk about dead animals when we’re about to eat, huh?” Fiona suggested. Liam nodded his head emphatically. The subject was quickly changed to Carl’s upcoming track meet at school.

* * *

After dinner was finished and they’d all helped Sheila clean up, Lip, Ian, and Fiona remained in the kitchen. Debbie, Liam, and Carl were sent to bed, even though they all protested loudly. “I don’t care what you say, you all still have school tomorrow!” Fiona had said. Debbie groaned but they all went eventually, pushing each other down the halls and giggling. Fiona sighed and said, “There’s no way they’re going to bed right now, they never listen to me,” and sat back down in the chair at the table, head in her hands.

Lip and Ian exchanged a worried look. “Is everything okay?” Lip asked. Ian moved over to a seat closer to her. Fiona just groaned and buried her head in her arms. Ian and Lip glanced at each other again.

“Fiona?” Ian asked tentatively, just resting his hand on hers.

“Running a country is so haaaaaaaard,” Fiona’s said, voice muffled by her arms. Ian took her hand in his, and Lip ran his hand up and down Fiona’s back. “I have all this shit to deal with, and then I have you kids to take care of and worry about—not that I don’t like it, mind you two, I love caring for you guys—but I just worry way, way too much.” She groaned again. “Fuck the crown. I want to worry about normal things for once.”

“Like Debbie and Carl and Liam in school?”

Ian and Lip watched as the bun went up and down as Fiona nodded. She leaned back, giving Lip a small smile as he moved away. “It’s nice to worry about small things like that,” she admitted. “That, I can handle. But then I just—I get criticisms left and right that ‘I’m not focusing enough on the crown’ and that I ‘never do enough’ and . . . fuck.” She shook her head. “It’s just so much, all the time, you know? And _then_ , to top it off, if I’m not being criticized for what I’m _not_ doing, I’m getting criticized because I’m wearing a dress that is slightly unflattering to my thighs or I’m wearing makeup that isn’t my color! Why doesn’t anybody notice the good shit I’m doing—or at least trying to do? Why don’t they talk about that?”

“You know why,” Lip said quietly.

Fiona snorted. “Yeah, I fucking know why. It’s just absolute bullshit.” Ian looked at Lip again, and Fiona let out another groan. “Can you guys please stop doing that thing where you look at each other and read each other’s minds?”

Ian let out a small laugh, knocking his shoulder with Fiona’s. “Sorry,” he said, grinning at her. “It’s that year apart thing. And the being forced to do everything together thing.”

“Aren’t you so lucky,” Fiona said dryly. “Oh, wait. Fuck. Debbie and Carl are a year apart too. I’m so screwed.”

“As long as you admit it,” Lip said good-naturedly, sitting back down in the chair on the other side of Fiona.

“I’m starting to think Grammy was right,” Fiona blurted out. Almost immediately, she looked like she regretted saying it.

Lip shot Ian a confused look, but Ian thought he knew. “Fiona, you can’t mean marriage.

“No,” she said, giving Ian a reassuring smile. “But I do think I need help, you know? I can’t do it all by myself.”

“We’ll help you,” Ian said immediately.

Lip voiced in his assent too, saying, “You know we’ll always support you.”

Fiona smiled again, looking touched and reassured, but also very tired. “You guys are my rocks, you know.”

“Imagine what it will be like when the Trio grows up,” Lip said. “There will be a whole mountain supporting you.”

Fiona laughed. “Until then, we suffer the teenage years.” She turned to Lip, punching him on the arm. “Although, I’m thinking with you running off and being secretive, I have three fucking teenagers.”

Lip yelped when she punched him and scooted further away from Fiona, rubbing his arm and eyeing her warily. “You could just ask me, no need to resort to violence.”

“Oh, _please_. I’ve asked you many times before and you were very tight-lipped about it.” Fiona pointed at Ian. “Hell, I’ve had Ian text you about it and you didn’t even answer him. And when you don’t answer him, I know shit is bad.”

Lip sighed, avoiding both Fiona and Ian’s eyes. Ian definitely thought this was worrying, but he could almost see the moment in Lip’s brain where he resigned and just decided to tell them. “I’ve been hanging out with Karen,” he admitted, voice low and eyes skirting theirs. Ian stared at Lip, almost disbelieving. He knew Fiona felt the same because her mouth was open, and then she punched Lip again. “Ow, fuck, Fiona!”

“Lip!”

“This is why I didn’t tell you guys, fuck!”

“What does hanging out mean, exactly?” Ian asked. Lip pressed his lips together. “ _Lip_?”

“Look, we’re dating.” Ian had to bite back an incredulous laugh. Karen was dating Lip? Ian thought she’d sworn Lip away ages ago.

“Uh-oh.”

“Fiona, maybe tone down the internalized misogyny for one second?”

“Okay, first of all, calm down. Second of all, I’m just confused, Lip. Do you not remember what happened in high school?”

Lip glared at her. “That was different,” he said, and he already had his _we’re in an argument so I’m going to use my “I’m-superior-than-you”_ voice on. “We weren’t actually dating then, and when she broke it off—yeah, we all remember. But Karen and I are actually dating now.”

“Wait.” Ian leaned forward. “Did you just actually admit that you weren’t dating?” He faux-whispered to Fiona. “Did Lip just admit that he was . . . _wrong_?”

“Fuck you, Ian,” Lip said, scowling. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you two.”

Ian sighed. “Lip, I like Karen just as much as you do, okay? Well, maybe not as much now, but—you get the idea. I’ve been her friend almost as long as you have. You could have told me, and maybe I’d worry and shit, but it’s not like it’s unwarranted. Shit happened in high school. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“It’s the sneaking around that gets me worried,” Fiona said. Lip turned away again, jaw clenching. “Seeing Karen doesn’t make you suddenly back in high school. What about a job? I know you’ve been looking for one. And god, if the media gets this idea that you’re sneaking around—”

Ian could see the Lip’s tells that he was going to snap soon, so he interrupted Fiona. “Fi, I’ve been sneaking out too,” he said. Fiona stopped her conversation and looked at Ian in surprise. Ian was a bit sad she hadn’t noticed like she had with Lip, but it had only been a few days, not nearly as long as Lip had been. “I go out sometimes. I met some people.”

Fiona bit her lip. “You met some people,” she repeated.

“I don’t know them that well,” Ian said, immediately backtracking when he saw the concern flash over her face. “I mean—fuck. They’re not like close friends or anything, but they’re nice, and they let me stay in a secluded area and just—” Ian broke off. “It’s nice. I’m not bored out of my mind there.” When Fiona opened her mouth, Ian said quickly, “No, they’re not gonna say anything about me. They promised. And I know, I know, people always lie, but they’re not like that.”

“Just . . .” Fiona rubbed her face with her hands. “God, both of you, be careful? Please?” Fiona asked, looking at Lip and then Ian. “Promise me you’ll both be careful.” They both agreed, and Fiona nodded, taking a deep breath. “God, here I am again, worrying. It really does never end.”

Lip stood and kissed the top of Fiona’s head. “It’s gonna get better, okay?” He touched his hand to her shoulder.

Fiona toucher her hand to Lip’s for a moment, and then she grabbed Ian’s too. For a second they were all quiet, Fiona holding onto them like she could soak up their strength. Ian squeezed Fiona’s hand and said, “Get some sleep, alright? You definitely need it.”

Fiona nodded. “Let me just clear this up.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. God, the two of you are mother hens. Go to bed.” She stood up, shaking Ian and Lip off of her, and then grabbed the beer bottles on the table. Ian watched her go over and pour the rest down the sink before following Lip down the corridor.

“Thanks for coming in for me back there,” Lip said. When Ian looked at him, confused, Lip elbowed him in the stomach. “Saying you were sneaking out to see other people, too. I know you only said that because you wanted to divert Fiona’s attention away from me.”

Ian opened his mouth to say _no, all of that was true, they’re really great people_ —or maybe ask Lip why he thought Ian had made that up instead of it maybe being true—but instead, for some reason, he just said, “Yeah, of course,” without really knowing why.

* * *

“You came again,” Svetlana said, smiling at him as she handed him a menu.

“I did,” Ian said, returning her smile. He liked the way that her eyes became warmer when she did, the way her lips turned into something sly. “And you’re working here.”

Svetlana shrugged dramatically. “I’m a slave to money.”

“I’ve never heard a truer statement in my life,” Mandy said, appearing behind Svetlana out of thin air. “Did you have table seven?” she asked Svetlana, touching her on the elbow.

“Yes, why?”

“Major spill. They might need more shit.”

Svetlana rolled her eyes and cursed in a language Ian couldn’t identify before moving off to another table.

Ian watched Mandy’s eyes trail after Svetlana until Svetlana did something that made Mandy’s attention snap back to Ian. “So, good to see you back again,” she said.

Ian held out the menu, and Mandy took it, looking confused. “I already know what I want,” Ian explained.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll take your order.”

Ian ordered the same sandwich as last time, and he noticed that as he added and took away from the Milkovich, Mandy’s eyebrows began to raise disbelievingly.

“Please tell me you’re not like Mickey and are a sandwich snob,” Ian said.

Mandy laughed. “Is this going to ruin our brand new friendship if I am?”

Ian blinked at the word “friendship,” shocked, but ignored it. “Definitely.”

“But which do you value less: sandwich snobbery or lying? Because if I lied about how snobbish I am about sandwiches . . .” Mandy grinned at him.

“You’ll have to let me think about it,” Ian said. “What’s so horrible about my sandwich choices anyways?”

“The Milkovich is a very special sandwich to Mickey and I,” Mandy said, pushing her bangs back. It didn’t really do much as the bangs moved right back almost immediately, but Ian liked the fluid motion of it. “You’re ruining a sacred sandwich.”

“And I enjoy every bite of it,” Ian said.

“I can’t stand the blasphemy,” Mandy exclaimed, putting a hand to her forehead dramatically. She tucked her pen back into her apron, winked at Ian, and then went to put his order to the kitchen.

Ian relaxed back against the booth, ready for the stress to leave him.

He found himself pretty much spending the entire afternoon at The Setting Sun. An hour or two into it, he asked Svetlana, “Mickey’s not here today?”

“Took the day off today,” she answered.

It didn’t really matter either way—Svetlana and Mandy took all of Ian’s attention for the entire time he was there. Svetlana enjoyed talking to him and telling him funny stories about customers, and Mandy liked telling him funny stories about Mickey when he was younger. “Oh, he’ll kill me if he knew I told you _this_ one,” she’d say, and then she’d tell the story with obvious enthusiasm.

He liked watching the way Mandy and Svetlana were around each other. Mickey had said they were roommates but also something more—they either needed to date or fuck, he’d said, but Ian thought that maybe it went a little deeper than that. It didn’t seem like they were playing around each other or anything—sure, they flirted with each other and were playful around each other—but overall everything seemed serious. They would bend their heads together over by the bar, talking about something quietly, and when they talked normally, they made very casual touches: lower backs, private crooks of the arms, their hands, sometimes even each other’s hips. It was like they both knew what was going on between them but hadn’t actually done anything yet and were just letting the tension racket up.

On second thought, maybe Mickey was right in saying they either needed to date or fuck. Whatever was building between them was gonna end in one or the other, and in Ian’s opinion, neither Svetlana nor Mandy would really mind either option.

“Does anyone ever man the bar?” Ian asked Mandy as she was telling another childhood story. “I’ve never seen anyone actually work there.”

“The bar is closed until the sun sets,” Mandy said. When Ian furrowed her brows, she said, “Yeah, it’s not a coincidence that the bar is called _The Setting Sun_. When the sun sets, it goes through the windows and lands directly on the bar.” She pointed to the windows and drew a line from the windows to the bar. “With the dark wood, it’s amazing. The tradition here is that the bar always opens when the sun sets.”

“Must suck during daylight savings time,” Ian commented. “Because the sun sets so late.”

“Yeah, people complain. We still serve beer and stuff, and you can sit at the bar if you really wanted, but it’s not like . . . in full service, I guess,” Mandy explained. A look of realization dawned upon her face, and then she looked at Ian with a knowing look on her face. “You’ve never been here at night, have you?”

“No,” Ian said, feeling slightly worried about the look on Mandy’s face. He knew it could only mean trouble. “Why?”

“Nothing, just. If you like the place _now_ , you should see it then,” she said slyly. “You like music, don’t you?”

The vague questions were definitely worrying to Ian now. “Yeees,” he said, drawing out his answer. “Again, why?”

Her smirk got bigger, and she put on an innocent face. “No reason,” she said, giving him a sunny smile. “Can I get you something else to drink?”

* * *

“Mandy tells me you like music,” was the first thing Mickey said to Ian the next time they met.

“Uh, I mean, yeah,” Ian stammered, confused. “What is it with you Milkoviches? I feel like you’re always speaking in code.”

“Not code, man,” Mickey said. “It’s sibling talk.”

“Ah, of course.” Ian shook his head. “I should have recognized.”

“Yeah, step your fucking game up,” Mickey said, laughing. He nodded his head at Ian. “You still want that devil of a sandwich?”

“Stop insulting the sandwich, Mickey. It could have feelings.”

“Then I’m even more disturbed by you eating it.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? If you’re eating something that has feelings, I’m pretty sure that it wouldn’t want you eating it—unless there’s something fucked up in its mind because who honestly would enjoy being—”

“No, Mickey, fuck,” Ian interrupted, trying not to laugh at Mickey’s comments. “I meant, why does it matter that I like music?”

Mickey tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth raised in such a way that it wasn’t a smirk, exactly, but Ian could almost feel the self-satisfaction radiating off of him. He stared at Ian for a little, and something about his gaze made Ian feel unsure, suddenly, though Ian didn’t exactly know what he was unsure of, and really, why would he be feeling unsure of anything when Mickey was staring at him?

“I think . . . I think you’ll find out why,” Mickey said slowly. “Fuck, I honestly think you will.”

* * *

“I have a question,” Ian said the next time he was there. He was hanging out in his booth, trying to respond to Debbie’s incoming and frantic text messages. She had an English project coming up, and she had to give some presentation talking about anything that could relate to her book. She was freaking out and sending Ian text messages at the speed of light, frequented by lots of exclamation marks and capital letters.

Mickey considered this. “I’ll let you ask yours if I can ask one in return.”

“That sounds worrying,” Ian said, laying his (buzzing) phone down on the table. “But sure, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“Are you free this Friday night?”

Ian blinked, trying to force his brain into not running away with that question. It was a completely normal question, there could be plenty of reasons why Mickey was asking. Then Ian realized he should probably answer the question. “I’m not,” Ian replied, trying to think of his schedule. “We have a meeting with some representatives from—” Ian caught Mickey’s blank look. “You don’t care, sorry,” he said.

“Well . . . I care in the fact that you can’t come,” Mickey replied.

“What about any other night? I’m sure I’m good another day.” Ian paused, and then grabbed his phone to check his calendar. His memory was not good enough for this right now.

“Ian, _Ian_ ,” Mickey said, laughing. Ian looked up at him. “You don’t need to worry. It only works on Friday nights.”

Ian glanced at his phone, where Debbie has sent him a text saying something close to “ _Ian?????????_ ” except with a lot more words, exclamation and question marks, and capital letters. “Why? What’s on Fridays?” he asked.

Mickey grinned, shrugging. “You’ll have to find out when you come.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “You do know I can just ask Svetlana and Mandy, right? They’d definitely tell me. There’s no need for all the secrecy.”

“If I don’t keep my aura of secrecy, how else am I supposed to keep attractive young men coming around?” Mickey said. Ian stared at him in shock, because—holy fuck.  Ian almost couldn’t believe it. Mickey looked confused at Ian’s expression, but it only took Mickey a second to realize what happened. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he exclaimed. “Shit, shit, I didn’t mean to say that.” And that—Ian just knew, Mickey’s panicked expression confirmed it. Holy fuck, Mickey was gay.

Mickey’s face was getting slightly flushed as he stammered, and Ian figured that Ian should probably speak and reassure him or something. “So . . . _that’s_ what you’ve been doing to me this entire time?” Ian asked. “I mean, I have to admit, it worked.” _I’m gay too, no need to worry_ , was what Ian actually wanted to say, but just because he was glad Mickey didn’t turn him in didn’t mean he was going to come out to him. Ian had no idea how loose-lipped Mickey was, and he didn’t want Mickey to casually let it slip that hey, Prince Ian? He was actually gay.

Mickey stared at Ian a little before tipping his head back and giving out a very relieved laugh. “That,” he said to the ceiling, “was not really what I was expecting when I . . .”

“Accidentally came out to a prince?” Ian suggested. Mickey nodded, letting out another small, incredulous laugh. “Look, I’m not gonna . . .” Ian trailed off. The weirdest thing about the whole _the entirety of the media or society doesn’t know I’m gay_ thing was that it was a so good of a secret that Ian didn’t actually have any experience in talking about it in normal conversation. There wasn’t even rumors about it. You’d think that being a prince—and knowing full well that being a gay prince means you had to be very careful around media—would make Ian very good at discussing it. The opposite was true: there had been so little discussion of it that even tiny conversations like this made Ian trip over his words. He was overanalyzing, he realized. Mickey wasn’t going to automatically figure out Ian was gay just from conversations like this, but still, Ian was fucking struggling. God _damn_ it.

Mickey waved his hand, as if he were brushing the topic away from them. “Anyways. You want the same nasty sandwich, I’m guessing.”

“I’m glad we’ve reached a point where you don’t have to ask anymore.”

“Speaking of asking, what was the question you wanted to ask me earlier?”

“It wasn’t anything much,” Ian admitted. “Only, I don’t know where the bathroom in this place is. And I, uh, need to go.”

Mickey laughed. “I think I could have concluded the last part without you saying it. Unless you’re one of those people who always announced when they’re going to take a piss.” Mickey pointed to a door close to the kitchen one that was swinging open as Mandy came out, carrying two trays. “In there is another room with a pool table. The bathrooms are in there. You’ll see the appropriate signs.”

“Thanks.” Ian stood, careful of the space in between him and Mickey. He took a step towards the door before turning back around and saying, “Besides, if there’s anyone who really, uh, announces when they’re going to the bathroom, I think it would be you.”

Mickey tilted his head, confused, before his eyes narrowed. “Mandy told you the fucking story about me pissing on first base, didn’t she?” he hissed. When Ian had to press his lips together to stop laughing, Mickey shook his head. “I’m about to go kill her right now, _excuse_ me.”

Ian watched as Mickey walked away, shaking his head and heading towards Mandy. Smiling to himself and feeling something warm and content in his stomach, Ian turned back around and headed for the door.

Ian had about twenty more messages from Debbie when he returned, so he started gathering his items together.

“Leaving already?” Mickey asked from behind Ian.

Ian turned his head and nodded. “Yeah, Debbie needs help on a project.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t put in your order, then.”

“You must be relieved if another one of those sandwiches aren’t made,” Ian said, replying back to Debbie: _coming back now, ok??_

“That’s true,” Mickey said, eyes on Ian’s phone when Ian looked up at him.

“Although you will miss the money?” Ian prompted, putting his phone back into his pocket.

“Stop trying to taint our friendship,” Mickey said, punching Ian playfully on the shoulder. When Ian gave him a shocked look, Mickey said, “Oh, come on, that didn’t hurt,” which was true, but Ian couldn’t tell him that he was shocked that Mickey threw out “friendship” so casually. Or maybe Mickey really did think they were friends, which Ian would also find surprising, mostly because he wasn’t sure if they’d be actual friends. Mandy had done the same thing. What was with these Milkoviches? “And hey, don’t forget about Fridays,” he said. “Tell us when you have an open one, yeah?”

“Yeah, definitely. I’ll see you around,” Ian said, and he didn’t know why that would make Mickey smile, and he also didn’t know why Mickey’s smile would make him feel so good.

He tried figuring it out on the way back to the palace, but by the time he entered the gates, he still couldn’t quite place his finger on it.

* * *

When Ian walked into Debbie’s room, he expected complete chaos, not Debbie sitting on her bed, reading calmly, while Carl sat at her desk, playing video games. It was only until Debbie saw Ian enter that the chaos began. “Ian!” she yelled, putting the book down and jumping off of her bed. She moved over to him and gripped his arm tightly. “You’re so late, where the hell were you?”

“I was out,” Ian replied, putting down some her stuff on her bed. “Besides, you don’t look as panicked as you sounded over your texts.”

“That’s because you weren’t here about ten minutes ago,” Carl said from the computer. Debbie picked up a pencil and threw it at him. It barely skimmed his shoulder, but he still flipped her off.

“Next year when you have to give a ten-minute presentation on _The Great Gatsby_ , I won’t help you at all!” Debbie exclaimed. She turned back to Ian, sighing. “Carl hasn’t been any help,” she said, running a hand through her hair.

“I haven’t read that book! How the fuck am I supposed to help you?” Carl demanded, pausing his game and turning around to face Debbie. When she said nothing, he rolled his eyes and turned back to the computer. “That’s what I thought.”

Debbie stuck out her tongue at his back and then turned to Ian again.

“So what are you having issues with?” Ian asked.

“I have to give a ten-minute presentation on _The Great Gatsby_ ,” Debbie explained. “I have to discuss a certain topic, talk about that topic during the time period, and then relate it back to the book. The problem is that I don’t have a topic and I don’t know what to do! You’re not allowed to do double presentations, so I can’t do one that anyone else in my class is doing. That means that basically every single good topic is taken.”

“Alright, well, my knowledge on Gatsby is rusty,” Ian said, “but let’s see if we can bat some stuff around, huh?”

When the clambered onto the bed and made themselves comfortable, Carl asked, “You guys gonna be here for a while?”

“Probably.”

“I’ll go get snacks,” he said, getting up and disappearing.

He and Debbie threw topics back and forth at each other. Ian would give a topic like “Women in the book?” and Debbie would shake her head and say, “Someone in my class is already doing it.” It seemed like that with every topic. Debbie would also explain that there were some topics she could do, like sentence structure or whatever, “But it wouldn’t take ten minutes, and if it’s not at least ten minutes then we lose, like, a billion points, and basically I’m going to fail.”

“You’re not going to fail,” Ian said, using his most diplomatic and reassuring voice. “What about the use of water in the novel?” he asked, thinking of the lake.

Debbie shook her head. “Alex is doing that.”

“Fuck.”

“I _know_.”

Carl came back with snacks, carrying a six-pack of soda cans and large bags of pretzels and chips. He held up the bags, and when Debbie picked the chips, Carl threw the pretzel bag at her. “Asshole!” she said, but she opened the pretzels anyways, offering some to Ian too. He took some and munched on them while thinking.

“Food in the novel?” he said, waving the pretzel in the air.

“Not enough backing. And what am I gonna do, discuss 1920s food? Ugh.”

“You could find a menu from the palace archives,” Ian suggested, leaning forward. “That could be cool.”

Debbie thought about it. “I guess I’ll add it to the maybe list,” she said, “but I don’t particularly want to do that one.”

“Alright, continue brainstorming.” Ian tried remembering what it was like being a senior in this English class. He couldn’t remember much about the book, not enough details anyways. He was pretty sure he wrote an essay on the narrator, but he couldn’t remember what about. “I’m sorry I’m shit at this,” he told Debbie. “You should have texted Lip.”

“You’re fine, Ian,” Debbie said. “It’s more than what I thought of. Besides, I texted Lip, too. He didn’t answer.”

Ian frowned. “He didn’t?” He’d told Ian and Fiona, but they’d told the younger siblings too. Why hadn’t he answered Debbie? They knew where he was, there was no point hiding it. “Maybe he was just busy.”

Debbie arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yes,” she said dryly. “I actually think he was _very_ busy.”

Ian wrinkled his nose. “Okay, I didn’t need to think of Lip and Karen fucking right now. Focus on Gatsby.”

Debbie nodded, only Ian didn’t stop thinking about Lip. What had Lip told him was the key to writing English essays in high school? “What about gay?” Ian asked. Debbie gave him a confused look. Ian realized that probably didn’t sound like an actual English sentence. “The narrator. And arguing that he was gay for Gatsby.”

Debbie considered it. “Do you think I could really make a ten-minute presentation on it?”

“Then expand it, talk about queer people in general,” Ian said. “Talk about the guy the narrator supposedly slept with, or that Baker girl.”

“Jordan?” Debbie asked. “Wasn’t she interested Nick?”

“Did she seem romantically interested in Nick?”

“He was interested in her.”

Ian shrugged. “So he’s bisexual.” From the computer, they heard a loud coughing sound, along with a fist pounding on a chest. They both turned and looked at Carl, who was bent over the computer and hacking his lungs out.

“You okay?” Debbie asked worriedly.

“Just choked on a tortilla chip, I’m fine,” Carl rasped, waving his hand in the air. “Everything is fucking peachy.”

“Drink some water and wash it down,” Debbie recommended. Carl did so, giving them a thumbs up when his throat cleared.

“Anyways . . .” Ian shifted his gaze back to Debbie. “So Nick is bi. And you can argue that Jordan was aromantic, because to me, she never seemed interested in him. And remember that dude from the scene where they all get drunk as fuck? Read the end of that chapter. Everyone is pretty sure that he’s gay and slept with Nick.”

Debbie flipped through the book and found that part, reading the end. Ian continued eating the pretzels, leaning back against her bed frame and considering Debbie. She was so close to going to college, and Ian almost couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe either Debbie or Carl, really, because they seemed so grown-up now. Ian didn’t even want to think about how Liam was going to turn out.

“Oh,” Debbie said, looking up from the book. “I think I can do this one.”

“No one in class is doing it?” Ian asked.

“I don’t _think_ so.” Debbie frowned down at her book. “This would be good, too. I can talk about gay people in the 1920s and how they had to hide and . . . this could be really good!”

“Why don’t you email your teacher and ask them if the topic is taken?” Ian said.

“Carl!” Debbie got off the bed. “I need the computer!”

Carl sighed and minimized his program before moving out of the chair. Debbie sat down and began typing rapidly.

“You got any homework?” Ian asked Carl.

“It’s already done,” Carl replied. Ian raised his eyebrows. Carl rolled his eyes. “It’s _mostly_ done,” he amended.

“Uh huh. That’s what I thought.”

“No need to worry, Ian. I have pretty good time management skills.”

“Unlike me,” Ian said, smiling. Carl smiled back, but it suddenly hit Ian how true that was. It felt like right now, just wasting time away. Ian had just fucked around The Setting Sun when all this other life was happening around him—Debbie and Carl’s school, probably loads of other shit around the palace, not to mention helping Fiona—and he had ignored it and wasted his time. Fuck. Ian watched Debbie and Carl exchange a couple of more light-hearted barbs and decided that he wasn’t going to miss any more moments. He wasn’t going to waste any more time.

“Need help setting up the presentation?” Ian offered. Debbie nodded her head, smiling. Ian returned the smile and grabbed the copy of _The Great Gatsby_. “Let’s get to work,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know that it is basically universally acknowledged that Nick was gay for Gatsby and would probably be one of the first topics chosen, but I had to fit in Lip's quote from season 1 and relate it somehow??? and my knowledge on Gatsby is fairly fresh. Bite me. 
> 
> my schedule is also gonna be pretty tight these next two months with the end of school, so while I'm definitely still writing for this fic, updating might be a teeny bit slow. sorry about that!!! 
> 
> come talk to me on [my tumblr!](http://montygreening.tumblr.com) :))) i love talking to people :)


	3. Etiquette and Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We need to get the media’s mind off of this,” Vee said. “That would be our best course of action: ignore what they’re saying and divert their attention. They fall for it every time.” 
> 
> Lip groaned. “What event do we have to force our way into this time?” 
> 
> “No need for that this time,” Vee said, smacking him on the back of the head lightly. Lip still muttered a small “Ow” and rubbed the back of his head petulantly. “In less than two weeks time, you’ll be having a diplomatic meeting and dinner with the Lishmans. Enough will happen at that event that the attention will be off of this for a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, it's been ages with this fic! i had a lot to do with school, and then i was working on the big bang, and then . . . anyways, this is done!
> 
> updating may still be slow for this one, i hate to say. i wrote this fic and had plans for it, the season finale of season 5 happened, and now a lot of my ideas are sketchy. sketchy in a way where my ideas would be very uncomfortable bc of the season 5 finale, so i have to move a lot around and figure a lot out. BUT i haven't given up on this fic in any way! 
> 
> comments and stuff are great! i love it! i love you! have fun :)

“No one really does know how to have fun here at all. It is all etiquette.”

-Marie Antoinette

* * *

 

**_ROYAL AFFAIRS—EVERYTHING YOU DON’T KNOW INSIDE_ **

Ian stared at the magazine that had just been thrown down on the table in front of him. Anxiety rose inside of him, nerves writhing in his stomach so much that Ian had to force himself to breathe steadier so that he didn’t vomit.

Vee threw another copy down by Lip, and he only took one glance at the title before his chewing stopped. He threw a look at Vee. “They didn’t—?” He broke off, reconsidering. “Is it bad?” he asked instead.

Vee sat down in the chair closest to Fiona. “Mostly speculation with you and Ian,” she said, “but Fiona’s has a little more foundation.”

Ian and Lip reached for the magazines so quickly it would almost seem as if they were scrambling to open presents on Christmas Day. “Foundation?” Fiona asked as they flipped to the correct pages.

“Someone gave . . . inside sources,” Vee said, “and of course, with _her_ , I couldn’t fucking stop it, let alone even know about it.”

Ian scanned the paragraphs with trepidation, until he finally reached his paragraph.

> _The second Gallagher prince, Ian, seems not to be doing as well as his brother in the romance department, but don’t let the lack of evidence trick you. Prince Ian has always been covert about his relationships, from high school to college to now. There have been many photos taken of Prince Ian walking around with some beautiful girl with only rumors of whether or not they were dating to corroborate it. Many inside sources have said in previous years that Ian doesn’t like to put his partner in the spotlight. While that may seem romantic to him and his girl, the public is dying to know what goes on!  Ian’s secretiveness, now, must only be an indicator that something may be going on._
> 
> _That doesn’t mean all the women out there shouldn’t take this as a deterrent! Just as his quietness on the subject may mean he’s in a relationship, the opposite could also be true, and he may be single and available to everyone. Just tell that girl, whoever she may be, that when she begins dating him, let us over at_ The Reader’s Page _know!_

Ian couldn’t help the shaky sigh of relief that left his body when he finished his paragraph, leaning back in his chair. Lip was frowning as he read, and Ian wasn’t sure whether or not it was because he was reading his own section and was upset or if it was because he was reading someone else’s section.

“Well,” Ian began, taking another sip of his orange juice. “They still don’t know I’m gay.”

Vee turned her attention away from Fiona. “Thankfully, but how long will that last?” Vee asked, moving her hair over her shoulder. “Some of the better magazines and newspapers have to be coming to that conclusion soon. I mean, look at lords or councilman in history who never married. They’re always called ‘bachelors’ and ‘probably had homosexual tendencies.’” Lip snorted from where he was reading, giving Vee an appreciating look.

“Your point?” Ian asked. Lip may be laughing at her historical analysis, which Ian knew was true, but Ian also knew that could mean bad news for him.

“You haven’t been seen dating a woman in _years_. And the only women you were seen dating were all speculation anyways, just photos with girls you happened to be with,” Vee explained.

“One of them was Karen, I think,” Lip said. He turned to Ian. “Don’t you remember? You’d gone with her to the art museum for extra credit in one of your classes. Paparazzi took pictures of you guys exiting the building. There were rumors about the two of you dating for weeks.”

“What do you want me to do?” Ian asked, almost helplessly. “Fake date some woman?”  

“ _Hell_ no. But sooner or later someone is going to say, ‘Has Prince Ian dated a woman at _all_?’ And they’re going to realize that no, no you haven’t.” Vee sighed. “Whoever that person is, they must know they’re going to get rich. They’re going to try and sell it to as many people as possible.” She picked up her coffee mug, shaking her head. “Lord knows how that day is going to blow up.”

Ian pushed his plate away, suddenly feeling rather sick to his stomach. Some anxiety was creeping in, but he tried to ignore it. “What should I do when that happens?” he asked Vee, worry coloring his tone.

Vee arched an eyebrow. “What else can you do on that day but say ‘ _They’ve finally figured it out_ ’?” she said. “You’ve been preparing for this since you were thirteen, Ian. You know what the fuck is going to happen.”

“A ticking time bomb,” Lip said, eyes still scanning the magazine’s article on them. “Best be ready for everything to go to hell.”

“ _Thank you_ , Lip,” Ian snapped. “I haven’t been preparing for the total shitstorm of criticisms and threats that would be my coming out _at all_.”

Lip looked up, and Ian already knew he wasn’t going to apologize. “Look, it’s like what Vee said. You’ve been preparing for this shit since you were thirteen,” Lip said. “You should be ready by now. I think the Media team has been prepared since then too.” He tapped the article with his finger, looking to Vee. “What are you going to do about Karen and Fiona?”

“Karen and Fiona?” Ian repeated, picking the newspaper article again. He scanned the pages quickly. He searched through Lip’s paragraph for Karen’s name, and when it didn’t come up, just read Lip’s paragraph.

His was speculation, much like Ian’s, but it hit closer to home than the part on Ian had. It talked of how these fabulous and all-knowing “inside sources” knew that Lip had been absent from the palace recently and had been running off to see a girl. Lip had been missing for a couple of weeks now, and so he must have been seeing her for quite some time now—“Quite some time,” Lip said, laughing, “like it’s been two years and not three and a half months”—and so he must be getting “very serious” about her. There was discussion that the girl should be so lucky to be favored by a prince, talk of Lip’s past (dubious and usually ending bad) relationships, and how Lip may finally be an “honest man” now.

“Honest man?” Ian repeated. “What, are you marrying Karen now?”

“Didn’t you hear of our engagement?” Lip said, mock offended. “And to think I wanted you as the best man.”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t know, it’s saved me the awkwardness of refusing the offer,” Ian replied. Lip threw a piece of toast at him.

“Oh, that _bitch_ ,” Fiona snarled suddenly. Ian stopped his arm in mid-air, where he was going to throw a strawberry at Lip, and Lip was so startled by Fiona’s outburst that he dropped his silverware on his plate. The metal clattered loudly against the plate, but was forgotten as Lip looked at Fiona.

“I told you,” Vee said. “She’s an unstoppable force, and sadly, I am not an unmovable object.”

“What happened?” Ian asked.

Fiona shook her head disbelieving, eyes on the article. “ _More news can be given for our Queen_ ,” she read. “ _The former queen and current member of the council, Margaret Gallagher, readily informed us that the Queen is in search of someone who is suitable husband—and king—material. ‘Fiona understands the necessity of marriage in a kingdom,’ Councilwoman Margaret said. ‘I wish her the best in all of her romantic endeavors’_ —can you believe her? Wishing me well on my romantic endeavors when I’ve explicitly told her I have none?— _Reports from other member of the council also talk of the discussion on Fiona’s marriage status, so citizens may very well be preparing for marriage and all that entails_!”

“All that entails?” Ian repeated.

“Children,” Vee said, wrinkling her nose. “They wouldn’t want to say it so openly, of course, but once married, kids must be the next option, as demanded by the public.”

“And so Marie Antoinette was doomed from the start,” Lip muttered. When they all stared at him, he said, “Because Marie Antoinette and Louis didn’t have children in the beginning?” He received more blank stares. “Never mind.”

“ _No one can say for sure whether the Queen is looking for suitable partners in the common field or among the elite players, but one thing may be said for sure: we all wish her luck in finding a partner that not only matches her, but matches the ruling of this kingdom_!” Fiona frowned. “‘Matches the ruling of this kingdom?’ I am the ruling of this kingdom! They would have to match me, for fuck’s sake! Like I would choose anybody who couldn’t handle helping me run a country.” Fiona closed the magazine and threw it down the table. “Are we dealing with this at all?” she asked Vee. “I mean, are we responding or are we ignoring?”

“Ignoring,” Vee answered. “Ian’s has absolutely no foundation, so he’s safe for now. Lip has the potential of being in danger later, now that more people will be following him for glimpses of this girl he’s supposed to be seeing.” Vee paused, as if reconsidering something, and then gave Lip an inquiring look. “Do I need to have another discussion with Karen on media and paparazzi? And _no_ ,” she said firmly when Lip opened his mouth, “you cannot give it to her yourself.”

Lip, resigned, leaned back in his chair. He waved his hand in acquiescence, saying, “If we’re being more cautious and all.”

“Fiona, there’s really no point in addressing your part. You address it, and these rumors pop up. You don’t address it, these rumors pop up anyways. You address it, and everyone’s gonna think that somehow makes it true because the media doesn’t ever want to hear the fucking truth.” Vee sighed. “I don’t even want to look at my phone right now with the calls I must be getting.” She looked back to Fiona then, ran her fingers through Fiona’s hair. “For fuck’s sake, you Gallaghers can never be fully out of trouble, can you?” she said fondly.

“Just imagine what life will be like when the Trio aren’t under the protection of their schools,” Lip commented.

“Don’t fucking remind me,” Vee said, pointing her finger at him. “God only knows what kind of trouble they’d get up to.

The media—and society, really—had negotiated with the royal family on which royals they (or, most likely, paparazzi) could follow and write about. They’d come to an agreement that since Debbie, Carl, and Liam were still in school, they were off limits. If anybody took pictures of them, went on their school campus and interviewed them, or even wrote an article that mentioned more than just their name, that company was basically finished.

However, the other end of that agreement was that if Carl, Debbie, and Liam couldn’t be touched, Fiona, Ian, and Lip were a fucking buffet. Ian had dreaded the moment he was out of college, because he wasn’t under the “school blanket” anymore, but most articles remained on trifle stuff like this: what he had been wearing that one time he got food once, what his love life was like, visiting people and charities and events, and occasionally meeting with dignitaries with other countries. Ian could deal with newspapers and magazines and interviews, even if the questions usually dealt with the same bland questions (never anything on Fiona as queen, nor of the laws they were trying to put into effect, or, you know, anything to do with running the country). Paparazzi were the worst, but Ian was pretty sure that the reason why the Gallagher family had their own line of sunglasses made just for them was so that they could block out the bright flashes.

“We need to get the media’s mind off of this,” Vee said. “That would be our best course of action: ignore what they’re saying and divert their attention. They fall for it every time.”

Lip groaned. “What event do we have to force our way into this time?”

“No need for that this time,” Vee said, smacking him on the back of the head lightly. Lip still muttered a small “Ow” and rubbed the back of his head petulantly. “In less than two weeks time, you’ll be having a diplomatic meeting and dinner with the Lishmans. Enough will happen at that event that the attention will be off of _this_ for a while.”

Ian raised his eyebrows. “We’re meeting with the Lishmans?” They were another royal family, although a royal family much richer than the Gallagher family. Most of them were arrogant and condescending and not very enjoyable company. Every time Ian had met with them before, he had felt like they were all plastering their “diplomatic smiles” on their faces, and that all of them couldn’t wait for the event to be over.

Fiona glanced at him. “We have business to discuss with them,” she said curtly.

At this, Lip scooted closer. “What _kind_ of business?” he asked, right as Ian said, “What business do we have with _them_?”

Fiona sighed and shared a rather long look with Vee, prompting Ian and Lip to share a _what the hell did we miss look_. “Both of you have missed the last few council meetings,” Fiona began. “And I’ll admit that I have withheld some . . . key pieces of information from the both of you.”

“ _Fiona_.” Lip’s voice was incredulous. “What the fuck is going on?”

“As you know, the Lishmans are having some, uh, trouble abroad.”

“They’re fighting a war, yes,” Lip said. “I don’t see how this relates to us.”

Fiona rubbed a spot above her eyebrow. “We may be helping them in that war.”

“ _What_?” Ian asked, just as Vee’s phone rang. She sighed and answered it in short, clipped answers, and she looked at Fiona after she hung up.

“You’re needed on the other side of the palace,” she informed Fiona.

Fiona nodded her head. To Ian and Lip, she said, “I’ll give you both the notes from the previous council meetings. You can look them over and we’ll talk about them later. I have to deal with this.” She and Vee stood up and walked out of the room together, arms linked together and voices hushed.

Lip watched them go until they’d completely disappeared from sight, and then his eyes dragged back down to the table, where the magazine was laying face up, _ROYAL AFFAIRS_ still declaring itself boldly.

“I have a very bad feeling about all this,” Lip said gravely.

* * *

Mandy refilled Ian’s water and said, “Wow, actually doing work for once.”

Ian looked up from the papers that were scattered around the table. “Yeah,” he replied, giving her a small smile. He leaned back against the booth. “Don’t be fooled, princes actually have to do work.”

“And I thought all they had to do was look pretty,” Mandy said.

Ian laughed. “No, that’s just me.”

Mandy laughed at that. “That’s not true, I’ve seen your sister before. She’s hot.”

“Fiona _was_ voted most attractive royal last year.”

Mandy snorted. “That’s a real thing?”

“Oh yeah. They expect her to be honored and everything, but mostly she was pissed.” Ian tapped his pen against the papers he was reading through.

“So, can I ask what you’re working on, or is that a bunch of confidential stuff that I can’t know?” Mandy asked.

Ian glanced down at the papers. “It’s confidential,” Ian said. “State secrets and all.” He glanced at the table again, where the papers were facing him and almost blurring together. Fiona had given Ian and Lip the notes on the last Council meetings, but there was so much to sift through, not to mention take notes on, that Ian’s held already felt cluttered. “Sorry for using your restaurant as a office,” he added.

Mandy waved her hand. “It’s totally okay, we love having you here.”

Mickey walked by, said, “Mandy, you _do_ have other tables,” smiled at Ian, and then went to the kitchen to pick up more food. Mandy rolled her eyes but went on her way, winking at Ian as she left.

Ian went back to reading the official notes on the Council meetings. Some of them didn’t worry Ian that much—notes on palace gatherings and meetings, changes in the tours around the palace, or which sports games they were expected to attend—while others set Ian’s stomach writhing. Fiona hadn’t just been talked into getting a husband lately, she’d been continuously pressured. There were discussions between Fiona and Ian’s grandmother, but more conversations between the members of the Council without Fiona’s input. It was becoming clear that they weren’t going to take no for an answer for much longer, and they were going to do something about it.

Even more worrying about that was the notes on Lishman’s war. Their country hadn’t been just helping out—they’d been sending over troops, military supplies, and knowledge. The Lishman’s were a very wealthy royal family and had one of the most successful economies, so they didn’t need any economic support from the Gallaghers. In fact, they were so rich that they could support their own army without any help from the Gallagher family—they could pay for the weapons, for their own troops, for their own military supplies, and they could request for military knowledge from the Gallaghers. They could pay for it. So why the fuck were the Gallaghers getting involved?

Ian didn’t like it. He wracked his mind for a reason that Fiona would be willing to help them, but he couldn’t think of one. In all of Ian’s training for the army, he’d never come across any mention of helping in the Lishman’s war, and he was still relatively close to the heads of the National Army.

Maybe he would give them a call.

“Bad news?” Mickey’s voice sounded slightly amused.

Ian looked up as Mickey refilled his glass of water. “Confusing news,” Ian said. “I’m gonna have long talks with the Queen.”

“That would probably sound more intimidating if I didn’t know you were siblings.”

Ian laughed. “I’ll work on that. Oh, hey, speaking of news, I have good news, too.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey raised an eyebrow. “For you or for me?”

“Well, considering I don’t actually know what happens on Fridays, I can’t tell you who it’s good news for.”

Mickey paused, looking at Ian with a confused look on his face, before he grinned. “Holy shit, really?”

“Yeah, really.” Ian couldn’t help but smile—Mickey’s grin felt infectious. Something about his smile, the way his eyes crinkled.

Mandy hollered at Mickey before he could reply, so he turned for a moment to listen to her. When he returned, he was still smiling, although he was biting his lip. “So I’ll see you Friday?” Mickey said.

“Probably before then too, but—yes, you’ll see me.”

“Shit.” Mickey laughed, short but excited, rubbing a hand over the back of his hair. “I’ll see if Mandy and I can make it good.”

“Alright,” Ian said, watching Mickey nod and walk to go to other tables. He allowed a small moment to be excited, smiling to himself slightly, before pulling out his phone and sending a text to Lip and Fiona.

 _We need to talk_.

* * *

Ian was slightly apprehensive about Friday night, but it soon faded away to excitement as he walked down the streets of the inner city. There were tons of people out tonight, walking down the streets and walking into shops. Ian could see that the restaurants and bars were the busiest buildings on the block, making Ian even more excited about The Setting Sun and what Mandy and Mickey had planned. At one point, when Ian walked by a flower shop, he could hear loud music coming from the apartment above it. It made Ian strangely breathless with how alive the entire block felt, how energetic and vibrant it was.

Ian’s assumption about The Setting Sun being busy was true as he moved closer—the place looked pretty packed, but Ian was surprised that the lights were dimmed even lower (he didn’t know that was possible) and he could hear loud music coming from inside, just like the apartment. Ian hesitated before going in—there were a lot of people in there, and he didn’t want to be recognized—but everyone was so focused on the corner near the bar that Ian shook himself and went inside.

The music was louder on the inside, some rock band with a girl lead singer, and everyone was focused on them, shouting or singing along. Most people were pretty drunk, too, so no one cared for Ian walking through. His table in the far back corner was still empty, somehow, so Ian went there. It was dark enough in here that Ian took off his glasses and hat, hoping that the music and beer was enough attention for the night.

It wa Svetlana who found him in the end—he’d been hanging in the back, nodding his head to the band’s cover of Radioactive, when she walked by with empty beer bottles. She was dressed in all black, her hair darker in the underlit room, and her makeup was heavier than usual, but Ian recognized her immediately.

“Ian!” she said, pulling on his arm so that he stumbled forward. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You came! _Bliznetsy_ were worried about you, they thought you weren’t coming!”

“Who?” Ian asked, but Svetlana was already pulling Ian by his hand, weaving through the people listening to the music and shouting in each other’s ears. He could see Mandy at the bar as they moved closer, and Svetlana deposited him at the end stool. Mandy brightened when she saw him, smiling, and held up her hand to tell him _one moment_.

Once the request for drinks subsided, Mandy came over to Ian’s end. She reached over the bar to give Ian a tight hug, shouting into his ear, “I’m so glad you came!”

“So this is it?” Ian asked, waving his hand around to the room. “This is what you guys wanted me to see?”

Mandy smacked him on the arm. “You’re impressed, admit it. And you have to say this is fun! You can just feel the energy in here!”

She was right, of course. The band finished their cover of Radioactive, and Ian felt as though the cheers were running through his body. The band asked for requests, heard one they liked, and immediately jumped into Say It Ain’t So. The girl’s voice was husky but had a surprising vocal range, and Ian liked when the crowd sang loud enough for the girl to be almost drowned out.

“How many people are in here?” Ian shouted to Mandy, who was watching his expression with a grin.

“So many!” she yelled. “This band is everyone’s favorite, we try to get them as many times as possible. They’re so good!”

“I agree!” Ian said, listening to them sing the chorus. Mickey came out of the kitchen door, carrying a tray of fries, and his eyes widened when he saw Ian.

“You came!” he said, pausing for a moment. Mandy told him to get on with the orders, and he glared at her before heading off, knocking Ian’s shoulder as he passed.

“What do you want to drink?” Mandy asked, spreading her arms out to gesture to the bar. “We have a shit ton to order from.” Ian just ordered a beer, not particularly in the mood to get drunk and planning to nurse it the entire night. Mandy called him a bore but smiled, handing him a tall glass.

Mickey appeared at his shoulder. “Came late enough, did you?”

Ian shrugged, lifting the glass from his lips. “It’s hard getting out of a castle!” He watched Mandy mix a drink together for a guy at the bar. “How late do these nights go until?”

“Depends,” Mickey said, voice raising to be heard over the music. “Sometimes the people leave before the band, and everything settles down. Sometimes the band has to leave, and people go soon after that. Sometimes we decide to shut it down.” Mickey shifted the tray under his arm. “The latest this has ever gone was three in the morning.”

“ _Three_?” Ian repeated, eyes cutting over to the band and the people in here. “What the fuck?”

Mickey laughed. “The college nearby had just gotten out of exams and it was winter break. They were out late partying, and it was a fun night.” Svetlana came out with some food dishes, touched Mickey’s shoulder, and yelled at him to get back to work. Mickey huffed. “You’d think _she_ runs the fucking place and pays me, not the other way around.”

Ian laughed, watching Mickey slam through the kitchen door, and listened to the next round of songs. Mandy came back over and discussed the songs with him, talking about the band and how they came to The Setting Sun. “Apparently they liked our sandwiches so much that they wanted to sing here,” Mandy said. “It doesn’t make much sense to me, but they like the place. They’re the ones who started our music nights, really. They’re hectic, but we enjoy them.”

More people came in, moving to a table near the back, but Ian’s table in the corner remained empty. “Glad my table is still empty,” he said, pointing to the table.

To his surprise, Mandy laughed. “I don’t think you understand,” she said, taking a sip of Ian’s beer. Ian glared at her and moved it out of her reach. “We called that booth the Haunted Booth. In all the years we’ve been here, only about two people ever went to that booth. It’s the back corner, there’s hardly any light, and it’s never been full enough in here on a regular night for someone to use it.” She nodded at some girl in acknowledgement of her request. “Seriously, Ian. We were shocked that someone had sat there in the first place, and then when I checked out the table, there was a _prince_ sitting there. It’s possibly our strangest table here.”

“Maybe it’s blessed now,” Ian said, looking at the table again. He’d only gone back there because the reasons she’d said—it was in the back corner and didn’t have any light.

“I doubt that,” Mickey said, appearing at Ian’s shoulder. He was close enough that Ian could smell the cigarette smoke lingering on his skin.

“Fuck you,” Ian said, “I’m a wonderful person and you’re all blessed to know me.”

Svetlana came out of the kitchen, dropping a bowl of fries in front of Ian. “I know you didn’t ask for them, but you’re paying for them,” she said. Ian rolled his eyes and motioned for all of them to grab some, so they all stuffed their faces with fries for a moment.

“Svetlana, find anyone?” Mandy asked, mouth full.

Svetlana shook her head. Ian glanced between them, asking, “Find who? What’s going on?”

Mickey cut in before they could reply. “Don’t you two fucking tell him anything.”

Mandy gave Mickey a wicked grin and turned to Ian. “Every time we have one of these nights, we try to find the most attractive guy in here and get him with Mickey.”

“It never works and they’re _not fucking doing it_ ,” Mickey broke in, pointing his finger and Svetlana and Mandy.

“Oh, relax, brother dearest,” Mandy said, laughing. “The whole point is that it doesn’t work, it’s all for fun.” She picked up some more fries, said to Ian, “Look for the most attractive guy, alright? Don’t let Mickey’s anger scare you.”

Mandy went to go make a couple more drinks, while Svetlana pushed off the counter and made her way to a table to help some people sitting there. Mickey leaned his elbows back against the counter, looking around the room, leaning over to Ian’s shoulder and muttering about some guy in the corner that Mandy had pointed out earlier, and Ian nodded and looked in that direction. It was hard to make out the person he was talking about.

Ian glanced around the room quickly, trying to find the most attractive guy. He turned his gaze to Mickey for a moment, trying to figure out who Mickey was looking at because Ian didn’t actually know what kind of guy Mickey would be interested in. Only once he’d glanced at Mickey, he didn’t look away—Mickey’s profile caught his attention. He hadn’t noticed before, but it was a very nice profile, strong and backlit. Not that Ian hadn’t noticed Mickey was attractive before (he definitely had), but he also hadn’t been this close before. Mickey’s eyelashes were short but dark, and in the dark room the blue of Mickey’s eyes looked darker than before. Ian also couldn’t see Mickey’s freckles, although he knew they existed, and Ian’s eyes were lingering on Mickey’s hair when Mickey’s eyes cut over to Ian. When he noticed Ian looking at him, he turned slightly, raised his eyebrows.

“I thought we were supposed to be looking for the most attractive guy,” Mickey said, and even though Mickey didn’t say it, Ian caught the _so why are you looking at me?_ Ian hoped the room was dark enough to cover any blush that came on Ian’s face. The room felt a lot hotter than it had been before, and Ian took a large drink of his beer to cool himself down.

Mandy touched them both on the shoulder, leaning over the counter. In this position, her cleavage was very obvious, and Ian had no doubt that she used this to her benefit in getting tips. “Find anyone?” she asked, looking between them.

Mickey arched an eyebrow at Ian, but he knew that Ian hadn’t been looking, so Ian worked on the spot. “I hate to say this,” he said, “but I’m the most attractive person here. No question.”

Mandy laughed, smacking him on the shoulder and making him clutch on his beer so he didn’t drop it. She said, “Idiot,” fondly, ruffled his hair, and went back to talk to a woman catching her attention at the other end of the bar. Svetlana passed by, carrying a tray of burgers in her arms, smiling at them while she passed.

“So,” Mickey said, and his tone made Ian wish he could disappear on the spot. “You think I’m the most attractive person in the room by the way you were looking at me, and even if you hadn’t, you name yourself the most attractive person . . . thus making you the person I was supposed—”

“ _Please_ shut the fuck up,” Ian said, swallowing down another gulp of beer and actually enjoying the bitter taste. It was better than this conversation.

Mickey laughed. “Hey, it’s fine. Truthfully, I’m honored. It’s flattering to have the attention of a prince.”

Ian glared at him, putting his beer back on the counter. “You are such an asshole.”

Mickey only smiled like Ian just paid him a compliment. His elbow nudged Ian’s arm as he turned around to face the counter, and he grabbed one of the napkins. “Here,” he said, pulling a pen out of his apron. He wrote down a number on the napkin, pen dragging and almost ripping the napkin, and when Mickey was finished, he handed the napkin out to Ian.

“I’ll return the attention,” he said. “It’ll be like the medieval days, when people gave knights favors to tie around their arms. Only this goes into your pocket.”

Ian took the napkin, reading the numbers. He felt a bit numb. “I hope I don’t actually have to fight anyone,” Ian said, catching Mickey’s eye.

Mickey smiled, almost laughing, and then he looked at the napkin. “Oh, shit,” he said, taking the napkin back. He wrote down Mandy’s number, considered, and then wrote Svetlana’s number underneath. “Mandy would be pissed if I didn’t give hers, too. Svetlana might actually hurt me.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” Ian said, taking the napkin back from Mickey and folding it neatly. “Since you’ve just given me a favor and all.”

“Not at all,” Mickey said, grinning. Ian was going to do something really dangerous, like continue to flirt back, but Mickey saved them by saying, “Gotta head back to work” and picking his tray up. Ian watched his back as he headed into the kitchen and opened up the napkin again, glancing at the scrawled numbers. Ian smiled lightly, folding the napkin back up and slipping it into his pocket.

He signaled Mandy down when she wasn’t busy with anybody else, and she danced over to him, moving along with the music. By the time she got to him, he was laughing, and she rested against the counter, her hair in disarray. “Hello, most attractive person in this universe,” she said.

“In the room,” Ian corrected, taking her hand and playing with her fingers. “Fiona was voted most attractive royal last year, remember? I don’t even make that cut.”

Mandy ran her hands through Ian’s hair. “You will next year,” she said, tugging on his earlobe. Ian swatted her hand away. “Alright, how does it feel being the most attractive person in this room?”

Ian laughed. “I think your boobs are very jealous that I’m the most attractive in the room.”

Mandy glanced down at her shirt and started laughing. “I have to make money _somehow_ , Ian!” she exclaimed, pulling her shirt down so that her cleavage was even larger. “I’m trying to roll in the big dough.”

Ian laughed again, settling back in the bar stool, and talked with Mandy over the band’s next set, Svetlana and Mickey jumping in and adding their comments to the conversation as they passed by.

The napkin in Ian’s pocket felt like it was burning through his jeans.

* * *

Ian sure how to text Mickey the next day—how did he start the conversation? What would he even say?—and then went in circles thinking about how stupid it was. Mickey had given Ian his phone number, not the other way around. Only Ian could initiate contact, and yet he couldn’t fucking do it.

Ian took a deep breath, glancing over at the door. A tailor was coming in to make sure his suits were still a good fit or if they’d need to be changed (Ian was sure they’ll say the suits do need to change just to get some money), and Ian was pacing inside his room. His mind kept jumping to the phone in his hand, to the dinner they had soon with the Lishmans, to the Lishman war they were getting involved in, Mickey flirting with him last night, and what he was going to do next about the army. It created a rather hectic whirlwind of thoughts.

Ian decided that one of those hectic thoughts could actually be dealt with, so he opened up Mickey’s contact and texted him. The minute Ian hit send, he wanted to delete himself from existence. It wasn’t even the worst thing ever, but all Ian had said in his one burst of confidence was: _so what am I supposed to text you about, sandwich advice?_

He realized he sounded like an asshole and threw his phone on the bed. He also realized that he was a prince of a country and worrying about a boy texting him back was the least of his worries.

Except. It really wasn’t, god damn it.

Ian’s phone pinged. On the screen, Mickey said: _you’re lucky somebody is already in my contacts as asshole_. Ian let out a shaky breath, laughter barely on his tongue. His phone made another sound. _besides, you do need all the sandwich advice you can get._

 _leave my sandwich alone, it’s a delicious sandwich_ , Ian said. _i bet it would be really popular at the restaurant._

_not with the name i’d give it. dipshit, maybe. or: don’t buy this_

Ian shook his head, glancing at the clock and then the door. _not a very good business venture_ , he said to Mickey. To Mandy and Svetlana, he texted: _Mickey is bullying me_.

Svetlana said _good_ and Mandy said _so the usual_ , and not even ten seconds later Mickey said: _nice try, but you’ll never turn them against me._

There was a knock on the door, then, so Ian quickly texted all three of them _you’re horrible_ and shut his phone off, telling the tailor to come in.

* * *

The next time he was at The Setting Sun, Mickey handed him a menu.

Ian stared at the menu for a moment, confused. “Shouldn’t you already know what I want?”

“Just open up the menu,” Mickey said. Ian eyed Mickey warily. He told Ian to open the menu but hadn’t gotten out a pad of paper and a pen, like he would if he had actually been taking Ian’s order.

“Has our friendship degenerated?” Ian asked, laying the menu down flat on the table. “I thought we were at the level where you just _knew_.”

Mickey leveled a glare at him. “Open the fucking menu, Ian.” He waved his hand impatiently at the menu, so Ian opened it up. He glanced up at Mickey, but Mickey was still looking on in anticipation, so Ian turned back to the page. Nothing looked different until Ian got to the sandwiches—underneath The Milkovich was a new sandwich called _The Prince_ , and when Ian did a quick scan, he knew it was his sandwich.

Ian looked up at Mickey, strangely speechless, and furrowed his brows.

Mickey shrugged, a smile beginning to spread across his face. “I told Mandy about our text messages, how your sandwich might actually be a hit. So we cooked up the sandwich the way you like it, tried it, and . . .”

Ian grinned. “I told you it was good!”

“It’s still an abomination of The Milkovich,” Mickey said, “but Mandy and I agreed to add the sandwich to the menu.” Mickey gestured to the menu. “So, what do you want?”

Ian leaned back in the booth. “Write this down, I expect full service.”

Mickey shook his head, getting his pen and pad of paper out. “Royalty are such privileged fucks,” he said, clicking his pen pointedly. “What would you like, Your Highness?”

Ian cringed. “Mickey, please never use my title again.”

Mandy appeared at Mickey’s left shoulder. “Unless it’s in bed, right?” she said, winking at Ian. Ian may have choked a little, while Mickey began laughing. “Sorry, I got impatient. Did you tell him about the sandwich?”

“Yes, he’d just ordered one,” Mickey told her, exasperation filling his tone.

Mandy elbowed Mickey in the side as she turned back to Ian. “Do you like it?”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I mean, besides being proven right”—he looked at each of them pointedly—“it’s really nice. I’m—fuck, I’m pretty flattered.”

“Flattery through sandwiches?” Mickey said, looking between the two of them.  

Mandy elbowed him again. “Don’t ruin the beautiful moment the three of us are having, Mick.”

“He doesn’t appreciate us the way he should,” Ian said. “We should ditch him, find someone else who’ll love us for who we are.”

Mickey snorted. “Well, I already call Svetlana,” he said, then, “I’m going to get back to work, and my lazy ass sister should do the same.”

“That’s cheating with Svetlana!” Mandy yelled. “No calling dibs!”

Mickey turned around and called to them right before he went into the kitchen, “She was my best friend first!”

“And you were my brother!” Mandy called back, laughing when Mickey flipped her off. She turned back to Ian, her hair whipping around behind her. “He’s a traitor,” she said, leaning her arm against the top of Ian’s booth. “And I would totally get Svetlana on our side.”

“I really am, though,” Ian said. “Flattered, I mean. Maybe it is stupid to feel that way about a sandwich, but. I don’t know. It feels like I’ve been accepted, kinda. So I’m very flattered.”

Mandy smiled at him, bright and wide, and reached out to ruffle Ian’s hair. “You know we love you,” she said casually. She pinched his cheek. “You should hang with us outside the restaurant some day.” Ian hesitated, not wanting to shut her down immediately, and Mandy noticed. Her fingers left Ian’s cheek and squeezed his shoulder. “I know there are complications, but I just want you to know that the offer is out there. We don’t have to hole ourselves in this booth that much.” Mandy adjusted her apron. “Besides, I’d like to hang out with you when I’m not on duty at work. Are you okay with that?”

Ian had felt flattered before, but now he did feel genuinely choked up. He nodded, an attempt to stall so that when he spoke, his voice wasn’t watery. “I’d love that,” he said, smiling at her, and only felt warmer at the smile he received in response.

* * *

By now, Ian was used to the publicity that came around meeting another royal family. The Gallaghers had left for the Lishmans on a Tuesday, and they’d be staying over for three days. Three days that made Ian want to bash his head against a wall because the Lishmans were some of the mosts condescending bastards he’d ever met.

 _please talk to me i’m so bored_ , Ian texted to Mickey.

 _sure, your highness_ , Mickey replied, and Ian almost rolled his eyes. Mickey had gotten into the habit of calling Ian by his official title whenever Ian did something “that obviously shows how entitled you are,” or Mickey just thought Ian was being demanding. It was playful, and Ian was sure that Mickey would never be able to say his title in a respectful tone, but Ian was alright with that. _i live to entertain you, obviously_ , Mickey’s next text said.

After an hour of discussing Van Damme, Mickey said, _this across countries thing isn’t going to make my phone bill fucked, right?_

Ian hadn’t thought about that. _I’ll pay for it if it does_ , Ian texted Mickey, but Mickey didn’t reply. Even when Ian prompted Mickey with their old conversation, Mickey never texted back.

The first day of staying with the Lishmans involved niceties and stuff for the press—they were given tours of the castle, then a tour of the main city. They all went to an opera held especially for the two royal families, made sure the paparazzi took a legion of photos of the two families together, before returning to the castle and putting everyone to sleep.

It was the second day that they really started negotiations. Ian knew the drill—Fiona would talk with the King and Queen here, Lip would tackle some of the advisors, Ian would take the guard, and Debbie, Carl, and Liam would talk with the princes and princesses about life here. Only this time walking with the guard made him sick. Lip and Fiona must have understood, because they allowed him to walk with Lip or with the Trio, but it was something that apparently hadn’t been announced to the Lishmans. The second day in, the Captain of their guard asked for Ian to see a tour of the men, and Ian had no way to respectfully decline, not if they wanted negotiations to go well.

It was a pleasant day, but there was something hugely uncomfortable about the entire thing. The Captain, whose last name was Perez, showed Ian some of the men he worked with and the old battlegrounds that wars had been fought on in the castle. He took Ian on a tour of the castle that he called “The Battle Tour,” showing Ian where old canons had been positioned, which rooms were remodeled after being attacked, showing him a hall full of knights armor, and even an antiques room where they’d kept old guns and uniforms.

It was also uncomfortable because they had to avoid the whole discussion of the Gallaghers’ involvement in the war. As the prince, and technically someone who shouldn’t have information on the subject, Ian wasn’t allowed to disclose any of his own country’s secrets, while Captain Perez no doubt had the same exact feelings. He did, however, ask pointed questions about the National Guard, and Ian caught the underlying motivation.

Ian couldn’t blame him, really. He was sure the Lishmans had profiles on every Gallagher the same way the Gallaghers tackled every other royal family. Fiona, the queen, fiery and passionate but dedicated. Lip, the smart one. Ian, the army boy. Liam would want to see the animals. Debbie and Carl would put together with Liam to watch over him.

“Captain Perez,” Ian said, stopping Perez from asking a question about the Gallagher Army that was close to inappropriate. Ian forced a smile on his face. “It seems to me that whatever profile you got on me was incorrect.” Perez’s face turned to one of shock, as if he hadn’t expected Ian to call him out immediately. “Or at least, it hadn’t been updated recently,” Ian amended. “I’m not in the army.”

Perez didn’t shift his expression into confusion, just retained his look of mild interest. “Haven’t gotten your letter back?”

“I have,” Ian said, “and I have been rejected three times now. I’m not in the army, and if you’ll allow me to speak frankly, I have no interest in discussing either of our militaries with you. It simply makes me feel sick.”

Perez did a quick scan of Ian, nodded his head sharply, and asked, “Is there anything you want to do that I may direct you to?”

Ian’s fingers twitched—all he wanted to do was get out his phone and text Mickey or Mandy, but he knew that it wouldn’t be allowed, on either side. It’d be an affront to the Lishmans, and Fiona would be furious.

Ian made up something on the spot. “I’ve heard the stained glass windows in the church are remarkable.” Ian’s voice hardly sounded convincing, and from the small smile on Perez’s face, he knew it too.

“Alright,” Perez said, schooling his expression again, “to the church.”

* * *

The dinner on the last night was the main event. Everyone dressed up and went to the Lishman’s amazingly expensive State Dining Room, where decadent and rich meals were placed in front of them. By now, Ian had learned how to pace himself on these things. Especially on the wine. The servants running about may be careful when they delicately placed the salad in front of guests, but they were ordered to make sure that wine glasses were always topped. It was an age-old strategy, one that everyone knew about, to get the guests drunk and willing to spill on any state topics.

Ned Lishman and his wife Candace were sitting at the heads of the the table, both very imposing (and in Candace’s case, glittering) in their seats. Fiona sat closest to the King, his right side, to show her high title and honor. It went down the list accordingly—Lishman had only two sons, but the eldest son had a wife, so Ian found himself sitting between the prince’s wife and Carl. Ian kept up polite conversation with her (she, too, must have been schooled on his interest in the army, because she casually dropped it in conversation) while also making sure that Carl did everything up to royal etiquette.

The meal was spectacular, rich in flavor and color, and Carl’s mouth practically dropped at the lobster they brought out to eat. Carl tried to snatch Ian’s wine twice, making the woman next to Ian laugh about children, and so Ian quickly turned the conversation to her children. It was a relief to be able to stuff expensive steak in his mouth and nod his head instead of actually attempting to keep up his side of a conversation.

After dinner they were taken into the Lishman’s large study, where everyone lit up cigars and cigarettes and talked to people besides the ones they were sitting at. Lip excused himself to sit in the corner, where he brooded and smoked on a cigarette. Ian walked over to him and sat down on the chair nearby.

“You okay?” Ian asked, keeping his voice low.

Lip nodded his head, exhaling smoke. Ian didn’t know someone could blow smoke bitterly out of their mouth, but Lip did it. “I know why we’re dealing with them,” Lip said. “The Lishman’s, I mean.”

“You mean the reason why Fiona would even do this,” Ian said.

Lip nodded again. “There are two real motivations that I can see. Both of them are long-term, and both of them are shaky plans at best.”

“You got information from the advisors?”

Lip gave him a thumbs down. “Not exactly,” Lip said, playing with his tie. “It’s more . . . they said some things and everything just clicked in my head.”

“So what’s going on?”

“The plan that Fiona had is the money. The Lishman’s are rich, we all know that. If we help them in the war, and they win—”

Ian sighed, cursing himself. He knew war and battle tactics better than anyone. “And if they win, we look favorable because we supported them. They’ll know they can trust us, they’ll want to trade with us, and our economy increases. Fuck.” Ian shook his head. “That’s not even guaranteed.”

“And the second reason,” Lip said, looking behind Ian’s shoulder, “is flirting with Fiona right now.”

Ian frowned and turned to follow Lip’s gaze. Fiona was talking to Lishman’s younger son, Jimmy, and laughing at something he was saying. His arm was out, showing her his cufflinks, and Fiona only laughed harder. He remembered that they were sitting next to each other at dinner, but he hadn’t kept track of their conversation, too lost in his own.

“You don’t think—” Ian began, turning back to Lip, but Lip’s expression made it clear he did think. “Fiona can’t marry him,” Ian said, incredulity (and a bit of desperation) filling his tone. “They’ve hardly met, she won’t do anything.”

“Not now,” Lip said, giving a sardonic smile. “But you know that the Lishmans will want to talk soon, so they’ll send Jimmy to us, and Fiona and him will only be entangled further. I have no doubt that the Lishman’s had been planning for something like this.” He blew smoke out of his nose. “Maybe Grammy, too. This strongly smells like her old wrinkly ass.”

Ian snorted, but then the older Lishman brother walked over to talk with Lip. Ian excused himself, saying he needed to check on Debbie, Carl, and Liam, and walked over to them. Debbie and Carl were talking to the Queen, Liam quiet by their side, and Ian gave her a small bow when he arrived in the group.

“You have such _wonderful_ siblings,” Candace said, smiling in such a fake way that Ian was surprised she even attempted at all. “And I’ve heard so much about you.”

Ian dipped his head politely and began to entertain himself by thinking of what Svetlana and the Milkoviches would say of each person. It made Ian smile to himself and actually be able to deal with the forced and stilted conversation. Ian felt better when he was around Lip or Fiona—they must have caught onto his reluctance to speak, because they filled the space with enough conversation for everyone else to be satisfied.

Ian’s luck ran out when King Ned called Ian over. Ian glanced at Fiona, confused, but she only shrugged and nudged him along. Ian set his shoulders back, walking over to where the Ned had been smoking a heavy cigar with an advisor. He grinned when Ian got close, and Ian dipped his head politely.

“Prince Ian,” Ned said, waving his advisor along. “I have something I wish to show you.”

Ned motioned for Ian to follow as he went into a small hall connected to the study. It led to a smaller workspace, with bookcases covering the walls and a large, dark wooden desk in the middle. Ian stood hesitantly in the door, hands in his pockets, and texted Mickey when Lishman was getting something out of his desk drawer. _Help me_ was all he said, quickly shoving his phone into his pocket.

Ned took a long case out of a desk drawer. He beckoned Ian closer, so Ian stepped in, making sure he’s on the other side of the desk. “I thought you might be interested in this,” Ned said, taking an old rifle out of the case. “It was my great-great-grandfather’s—he used it in one of our history’s wars, but that doesn’t matter. It’s a very old gun, not functioning, but I thought it would interest you.”

Ian smiled. “Carl would have loved this,” he said, trying to keep his smile warm. “He’s much more interested in guns than I am.”

“But I thought you’d appreciate the history behind it,” Ned said, tilting the gun so that it faced Ian more clearly. So even the King hadn’t been updated on Ian getting rejected by the army.

Ian’s face was beginning to hurt from all the fake smiling. “As much as I want to be a soldier, Your Majesty, I don’t believe in glorifying war.”

It was as close to admitting that he didn’t trust the Lishmans as Ian was going to get. Ned must have noticed it, because his back straightened, and he placed the gun back in the case. “You don’t believe war is important?” _You don’t believe my war is important?_

Ian wanted to bite his tongue off. “I believe protection is important,” he said, very careful of his words. Ned closed the gun case and walked over to Ian’s side of the desk, standing much closer than Ian was comfortable with. “War is a tricky subject,” Ian added, only to save himself from digging in any further.

Ned nodded his head at that. “But I believe war is defining. It shows who you really are.” He had taken a step closer, and Ian moved slightly away. It was dark in here, far too dark, and the voices of everyone else in the study were only a hush. _Carl would have liked the gun better_ , Ian thought, but Lishman had still thought of a way to pull Ian away, to a dark, secluded place.

The smoke from Ned’s cigar was suddenly cloying at Ian’s throat. He fought off a cough. “When you have a safe, wealthy treasury and a strong military and you wage war, I’m not sure if it can really be called _defining_.”

That was crossing a line—Ian knew it, and Ned definitely knew it. Ian was shocked when Ned moved forward, hand coming to Ian’s waist, and trapped Ian against the bookcase. “You know, Ian,” Ned said in a low voice. “No matter how smoothly these past three days went, negotiations are still very fragile. It’d be very upsetting if something—if some _one_ —were to make it all crumble to pieces.”

Ian froze, hardly feeling like he could breathe with Ned pressed so close, the cigar smoke taking up the air in Ian’s lungs. “Your wife,” Ian reminded Ned, keeping his voice steady. “The Queen—”

Ned laughed. “We have a saying between us: I let you have yours, let me have mine. Hers is alcohol, mine is . . . quite anyone, really, who catches my eye.”

Panic began to set in. Ned’s hand moved further up Ian’s waist. “I’m not interested,” Ian heard himself say, _hoping_ he heard himself say it.

Ned chuckled. “You don’t have to lie, Ian. I know you haven’t taken to a girl at any point in your life.” His body moved closer, pushing Ian back.

There was real fear, then. No matter how seductive Ned tried to make his voice, he was still blackmailing Ian. He knew Ian was gay, he had the power to break the negotiations, and if Ian didn’t—if Ian didn’t—

“Your Majesty,” Ian said, hardly feeling like himself. His voice sounded flinty, cold as ice. “Considering the many people who commented on my interest in the army, you should know that I was very, very dedicated to my training.”

“Oh, I know,” Ned murmured, leaning in.

Ian jerked his head away. “So if you lay a hand on me, you will find exactly how good a soldier I am, how fucking serious I took my training.” Ned froze. “And I trained for eight years, Your Majesty. Remove your hands. _Now_.”

There was a pause where all Ian knew was the frantic beating of his own heart. Then Ned stepped away, moving to the other side of the room. Ian pulled at his suit and fled the room without speaking another word, walking down the hall briskly, his heart still pounding. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone when he got back to the study, so he pulled Fiona aside and told her, “I’m going to my room. I feel sick.”

Fiona gripped his arm, looking worriedly down the hall. “Ian, what happened?”

Ian glanced at the clock. It was seven fifty-three, and they were heading back to their country at ten. “Tell everyone my stomach wasn’t agreeing with me,” he said.

Fiona pulled him closer, bent her head towards his. “Ian, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

To his horror, he could feel tears in his eyes, so he insisted, voice thick, “Fiona, please, I’m sick, I’m _sick_. Please.”

Fiona nodded, brushing her hand through his hair once, in a way that was very motherly. “Alright,” she said softly. “We’re leaving at ten on the dot, so no alcohol, okay?”

Ian nodded, giving her a quick hug, and left the study without looking back. His steps echoed down the empty halls as he went by, turning corners so quickly that his expensive shoes slipped three times, and once Ian shut himself in his room, he went into the bathroom and threw up.

 _You’re safe_ , he thought to himself, pressing his face to the cold porcelain. _You’re not sixteen, he’s not Kash, you’re safe, you’re safe—_

Only he was twenty-two now, and it was still happening—by a king no less. A king with influential power, enough to royally fuck up (literally) whatever negotiations the Gallaghers were trying to commit them too. And he had power over the media outlets too. Ian felt sick again, clutching a wet towel in his hands and pressing it to his forehead.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He had a text from Lip, telling him to stay low, and one from Mickey that read, _everything ok?_

Ian knew it was only a response to his earlier message, but the timing was almost too perfect. Ian closed his eyes, pressing the wet cloth harder against his skin. He could feel the water drops sliding down his cheeks, his neck. It felt so relaxing.

 _i need five million shots right now_ , Ian texted back, hands still shaking a little. His phone vibrated again and Ian read Mickey’s message.

Ian was in another country and was arriving back in his country around eleven thirty at night—Mickey _knew_ this. What he didn’t know was why Ian had wanted alcohol, why Ian had texted _help me_ , but apparently it didn’t matter.

 _come over_ , Mickey said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "bliznetsy" means twins in russian, if you hadn't looked it up
> 
> shoutout to brianna for running through his and validating my writing my screaming at me in caps lock about this chapter via mobile 
> 
> [my tumblr](http://www.montygreening.tumblr.com/) is here if ya wanna talk!


	4. Images on Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey had said to come over, but Ian was still surprised to see the lights inside The Setting Sun on. The door was open—Ian locked it once he was inside—and stared hesitantly at the bar, which was the only thing that had lights on it.
> 
> The kitchen door opened, and Mickey walked out. He smiled at Ian, walking over to the bar, and said as Ian sat in a stool, “Fancy shit you’re wearing there.” Ian glanced down at his clothes—he’d taken off the waistcoat and jacket, but he was still wearing pressed slacks and a button down shirt. “Did you seriously come straight from your meeting?” Mickey asked.
> 
> Ian nodded, leaning his elbows forward on the table. “I hadn’t even thought about changing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh another update is here and I hope everyone likes it!!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who still supports this fic and reads it, and thanks to those who sent me on inspiration on my tumblr! They were really awesome and definitely helped, and I love you all :)))

“Isn’t life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?”

-Andy Warhol

* * *

The rest of the Gallagher family were drained and tired from the three day trip at the Lishmans, so sneaking out once the plane landed proved to be seriously easy. On any other day, a day where Ian’s dreams of being in the army and safety were key in his life, Ian would check with the head of the guards to make sure there wasn’t a single hole in the system. Tonight, Ian was grateful for the tiny faults in the supreme palace walls. He wrapped a coat tighter around his body and made his way easily out of the palace, slipping onto the streets of the city, hidden and forgotten in the night.

Mickey had said to come over, but Ian was still surprised to see the lights inside The Setting Sun on. The door was open—Ian locked it once he was inside—and stared hesitantly at the bar, which was the only thing that had lights on it.

The kitchen door opened, and Mickey walked out. He smiled at Ian, walking over to the bar, and said as Ian sat in a stool, “Fancy shit you’re wearing there.” Ian glanced down at his clothes—he’d taken off the waistcoat and jacket, but he was still wearing pressed slacks and a button down shirt. “Did you seriously come straight from your meeting?” Mickey asked.

Ian nodded, leaning his elbows forward on the table. “I hadn’t even thought about changing.”

“You’re fine,” Mickey said, waving a hand in the air. “You look nice.” He turned around to grab some glasses, and Ian stared at Mickey’s back, picking through Mickey’s tone and wondering how he could say something like that so _nonchalantly_. Ian was sure he’d stumble over it himself.

“Thank you, by the way,” Ian said, accepting the shot glass Mickey gave him. “For letting me come over. I know you were probably closed already, or at home—” Ian cut off when Mickey began laughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Mickey said, grasping on the edge of the bar counter. “It’s not because of something bad, just—it wasn’t a problem at all because I live _here_ , Ian. This building has two stories.”

Ian glanced up at the ceiling, trying to picture what the building looked like from the outside. “There’s an apartment above the restaurant?” Ian asked, looking back at Mickey.

Mickey grinned at him. “Yeah,” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter. He was wearing a loose grey shirt, and Ian had to bite his tongue to stop himself from telling Mickey he looked good. “So I live in the apartment above this restaurant, and Mandy and Svetlana live in an apartment complex on the corner of this block.”

“That must be convenient,” Ian said, because he really didn’t know what else to say, and he felt a bit ridiculous for not noticing it before.

Mickey nodded, pointing to the kitchen. “In the kitchen, there’s a door near the end that has a staircase up into my apartment.” Well, that made Ian feel slightly better—he’d never been in the kitchen before. Mickey pointed to the shot glass still clutched in Ian’s hand. “What are you feeling like tonight?”

Ian glanced down at the shot glass. “Oh,” he said. He’d almost forgotten that he’d texted Mickey that he’d wanted to have shots. “Vodka is fine with me.”

Mickey raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment, reaching for the bottles behind him to bring the vodka down. He poured one into Ian’s glass, leaning against the counter while he watched Ian touch the glass to his mouth. Ian grimaced when the vodka went down his throat, but he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tilted the shot glass towards Mickey. Mickey rolled his eyes and poured another one.

“So, what happened?” Mickey asked. Ian glared at him while he knocked back the second shot, licking his lips and trying to stall. Mickey must have caught on, because he said, “If you don’t feel comfortable with talking, I can just provide the alcohol.” Ian tipped the shot glass towards Mickey, considering. Mickey eyed the shot glass. “Just how drunk are you planning on getting tonight?” Mickey asked as he poured another one.

“As drunk as possible,” Ian replied, smiling at Mickey with gratitude before he took the third shot. Ian watched as Mickey put the vodka bottle down on the counter. “Join me,” Ian blurted out. Mickey raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t any fun if I’m getting drunk and you’re just waiting to pour me another drink,” he explained. “You’re not working. Come sit, get drunk with me.”

The corner of Mickey’s mouth twitched, and his eyes drew from Ian’s face to the shot glass with interest. “This is a bad idea,” he said, but he took out another shot glass, grabbed the vodka bottle, and moved to the other side of the counter. Ian grinned when Mickey sat in the seat next to him, placing the bottle and shot glass on the counter.

“Take three shots,” Ian said.

Mickey burst out laughing. “Woah, slow your damn roll.”

“Come on, it’s not fair if I’m this drunk but you aren’t. I’ve taken three shots, now you take three.” Mickey hesitated, so Ian nudged him with his elbow, made his voice more pleading. “ _Mickey_ , do it, we have to be equal.”

Mickey gave Ian a side glare but reached for the vodka bottle, and Ian grinned again. He felt giddy, watching Mickey tip his head back. Ian enjoyed the view of Mickey’s neck when he threw his head back, he liked the corner of Mickey’s mouth that was wet from the vodka, and _fuck_ , maybe getting drunk was a bad idea. Mickey had hardly slammed the glass down after his third shot when Ian was saying, “A fourth one.”

Mickey rolled his eyes but dutifully filled the glasses. “We haven’t even started talking about what happened, Ian.”

“After, after.” Ian tapped their glasses together, said, “Cheers,” and knocked that glass back. Mickey gave Ian an expectant look after they’d placed the glasses down. “Alright,” Ian said, leaning back on the bar stool. He could do this—only his stomach was turning itself into knots and taking four shots hadn’t helped that in any way. “If I throw up, I’m sorry,” Ian said, and then promptly wanted to stab himself.

“What?” Mickey asked. “Are you okay?” He narrowed his eyes. “Did I just doom myself by giving you alcohol?”

Ian waved his hand in the air, trying to appear nonchalant. “I just meant that talking about it makes me feel sick. I hate it.”

“Okay.” Mickey paused, waiting for Ian, and then cut in when Ian opened his mouth, “Just saying, again, that you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I will.” Ian _wanted_ to—he wanted to be able to speak about this, he was tired of keeping it bottled up, and he knew Mickey wouldn’t say anything.

Ian was pretty sure the last point comforted him most.

“Tonight,” Ian began, and then stared at his hands in shock, feeling ages away from himself. Had Lishman really attacked him _tonight_? Had so much really happened? “ _Tonight_ ,” Ian repeated forcefully, turning his head to focus on Mickey, “the king we visited attempted to blackmail me through . . .” Ian paused, waiting for the roiling in his stomach to stop. Mickey already had an alarmed look on his face once the word _blackmail_ was spoken out loud. “Through sexually harassing me,” he managed to finish.

“ _Wait_.” Mickey’s face went through a range of emotions so quickly that Ian could hardly identify them. “He fucking—”

“Tried to have sex with me,” Ian said, pressing his sweaty palms to his pants, “and when I refused, he attempted to blackmail me into doing it.”

Mickey stared at Ian for a moment or so before pouring another shot.

“Right,” Mickey said after they’d both taken their shots. “That’s fucking disgusting.”

Ian didn’t mean to laugh, but he was so nervous that it sort of bubbled out of him. If he hadn't, he might've started crying. “Yeah. _Yeah_. He—he said that if I didn’t, he would ruin the negotiations and basically fuck over our country. And now—oh god. I really think he could, and I don’t know if he’s going to, and if he does, I’ll have to explain it to Fiona and I can’t, I _can’t_ , not after what happened with—” Ian closed his eyes for a brief moment. “He really could. Fuck over negotiations. I’m sure we’ll be fine without the Lishmans, but I . . . I really don’t know.” And of course Ian didn’t, because Fiona hadn’t made him more aware of this earlier.

Mickey touched Ian’s shoulder. “Ian, he didn’t actually do anything, did he?”

“No,” Ian said, and Mickey dropped his hand, looking extremely relieved. “I told him I’d beat the shit out of him if he did, but in a very diplomatic way.” Mickey snorted, the corner of his mouth lifting. “It was terrifying,” Ian said, the tone of his voice sombering Mickey’s smile. “I really thought . . . he had me in a secluded place, and everyone else was so busy I’m sure no one would have really noticed, and he _threatened_ me, Mickey. I mean, he said he could end the negotiations, but he also said he would . . . he knew that I was . . .” Ian paused, clenching his hands. Why couldn’t he just say it? It was so fucking hard.

Ian had another shot instead. He glared at Mickey until Mickey had another shot, too.

“He had power over you,” Mickey finished, saving Ian from tripping on his words or being silent for an hour.

“Obviously,” Ian said, licking his lips. If he thought too hard about what happened, his brain took things further, gave him images he didn’t want. “Even now, it’s . . . I’m still scared. I’m still scared, just thinking about it. To think it could have happened again, that I would make the same mistake, it’s fucking _terrifying_.”

“ _Again_?” Mickey repeated. He gave Ian an incredulous look. “Ian—has he done this before?”

“Not him,” Ian said. “It was, uh, a different guy.”

Mickey took a deep breath and pressed his hand to his mouth. “A different guy,” he repeated. Ian felt self-conscious, like Mickey might be judging him, and so he hunched his shoulders forward. “He didn’t—the other guy, not the guy from tonight—he didn’t do anything either, right? He never actually—” but Mickey saw the way Ian hunched even further in on himself, how Ian poured out another shot. “Oh, shit, Ian,” Mickey whispered.

“It wasn’t—he didn’t—oh, fuck,” Ian said, pressing his hands to his face. “It wasn’t like this time. It was both of us—I should have _known_ , but I was stupid and he was—” Ian paused. “He was visiting from another country, and he was important because Fiona was still considered a young queen then, and we really needed their country to be friendly with ours. He stayed for about a month, and he . . . he was good. At making me believe him and shit.” Ian rubbed his face, unable to look at Mickey. “His name was Kash, he was married, for fuck’s sake, he had a wife and kids, and I was _fifteen_. He was twice my age.” Mickey cursed, sharply and violently. Ian didn’t look up. “He knew how to keep me quiet, too, how to make sure I didn’t tell anyone. He manipulated me _so well_ , because being . . . being me was lonely, when you couldn’t be in a relationship with anyone, and he preyed and picked on that.”

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ ,” Mickey muttered.

“Everything went to shit when he had to leave, and everyone found out—thankfully no one outside the castle—but it was the fucking worst. It was like turning on the lights after being in the dark for so long. I was so fucked up afterwards, I felt horrible with myself—angry, guilty, stupid. It didn’t go away. I find that I get angrier as I get older. I just—” Ian stopped, moved his hands to cover his mouth. He focused on his breathing. When he reached out to pour another shot, his hand was shaking, and the vodka got all over the table.

Mickey didn’t comment on that, which Ian was grateful for. Then he said, “Ian—”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Ian cut in, snapping his head up to glare at Mickey. His sudden anger took away his shame, at least, and he could look at Mickey’s face. “Everything you could possibly have to say has been pounded into my head more times than I could possibly say. I _know_. Whatever you were going to say, _I know_ , alright? I don’t need another lesson. I just need—

“Alcohol, apparently,” Mickey snapped, and Ian deflated.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m really grateful for you being here. It was late, and I was speaking nonsense in my texts, but you still offered support and—” And now Ian definitely couldn’t look Mickey in the face, so he turned his head away, tracing the rim of the shot glass and hoping that his cheeks weren’t pink. “Thank you,” Ian finished.

Mickey sighed. “I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. I was just—” He shook his head. “You’re welcome, even though I . . . Fuck, whatever.”

Ian nodded in acknowledgement, distinctly aware of the awkward space between them. “I’ve just always been shit in relationships,” Ian said, wondering if maybe the alcohol had taken control of his tongue when he hadn’t noticed. “Not that—not that the two situations I’ve described should be counted as relationships, but fuck, that fact that they exist just—” Ian shook his head. “Lip can do it so fucking easily. Relationships, or even non-relationships. You know? He can just go into a fucking club and pick up some girl and leave and nothing happens. But me?” Ian laughed. “I couldn’t even _try_.”

Mickey frowned. “The tabloids don’t ever pick up on it?”

Ian shrugged one shoulder. “They pick up that he slept with someone, but they don’t know who it is. They sign contracts, you see. They—or we, we give them this fucking paper that basically says if you tell someone that you slept with a royal, we can fuck you over until you’re nothing. It’s some serious shit. So Lip’s girls sign that and they never open their mouths and Lip can move onto the next fuck. It’s—for me, if I even flirted with someone, I’d be fucking screwed. Majorly fucking screwed. Because if they weren’t straight—holy shit, the people they’d tell. I can’t make random ass dudes sign a piece of paper every time I so much as hit on them.”

Ian fidgeted, horribly aware of the fact that he’d come out to Mickey in a very confusing, indirect way, and wishing that now Mickey would say something. He took another shot instead, hoping that it would stop himself from talking for a moment.

“Alright,” Mickey said. Then, “Alright, fuck.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty shitty.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.”

“I mean— _fuck_.”

“I _know_ , Mickey.”

Ian couldn’t help but to snort, and then Mickey was full on laughing, gasping, “I’m sorry, fuck,” between his laughter, but Ian didn’t care. He laughed a little too, feeling some panic from the night leave him.

“Sorry for fucking laying it on you,” he said, smiling when Mickey laughed harder.

“Yeah, you came out of left field with that one,” Mickey said. Then, “Literally. _Came out_. Of fucking left field.”

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Ian said, but he was laughing harder, and it felt so good to joke about being gay with someone other than his family. Mickey had his head in his arms on the table, his body shaking from laughing so hard, and Ian was pretty sure they were drunk because it honestly wasn’t that funny.

Except it was.

“I could go on,” Ian told Mickey. “I honestly—I got fucking secrets for _days_.”

Mickey sat up, leaning on his counter, his head in his hand and his elbow on the counter. “You really wanna be spilling your fucking secrets while you’re this drunk?”

“Why not?” Ian said, spreading his arms out wide. “What better time is there to do it? Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“I’m _Frank_ ,” Ian said, chuckling on the end. “Rambling about myself while I’m drunk. I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Who’s that?” Mickey asked. “Your dad?”

“Yes—oh, no. No, no, _no_.” Ian gave Mickey an easy grin. “That’s another top-secret Gallagher secret, you know.”

“Top-secret secret?” Mickey said, smiling.

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yes, and you’re getting special insight into the royal family. Stop _laughing_ , this is serious. I’m a bastard. An honest to God, modern age bastard.”

Mickey raised his eyebrows. “That’s a little extreme, wouldn’t you say?”

Ian laughed again. “No, I mean—like an illegitimate bastard. The Gallaghers are the royal family, and Frank isn’t my dad. I’m the only one who isn’t Frank’s kid, so _technically_ I’m a royal, illegitimate bastard.” Ian titled his head, considering. “Well, I mean—my dad is Frank’s brother. So technically, I’m still a royal. But I shouldn’t be a prince, I should be a—god, what is my half-brother? A duke? I should be a duke, I think. And I wouldn’t be third in line for the throne, I’d be tenth, or something like that.”

“God forbid that you’re, like, seven places further back for the throne,” Mickey said.

“Hey! In my coup, that’s seven or so more people to kill,” Ian told him, very seriously, and ignored the part where finding out that he was the only one who wasn’t Frank’s had torn at him for years after he’d found out. Mickey had already heard too much heavy shit from him tonight. “I found that out . . . what? When I was fifteen?”

“Man, fifteen was a shitty year for you,” Mickey said.

“ _Yeah_.”

“Must be a universal thing then,” Mickey said, almost off-hand, and Ian looked at him questioningly. “Maybe another day,” he said, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Let’s just say my teenage years will never be fun, nostalgic stories.”

Ian hummed, wondering if it would be okay to pour another shot, realized Mickey would not give a shit if he did, and then thought about how tipsy he already was. Mickey started laughing again.

“God, look at us,” Mickey said. “Getting drunk at bars and bemoaning our lives like we’re fucking fifty or something.”

“Is twenty-two too early?” Ian asked. “I’m pretty sure there are people who have done it that are younger than us.”

Mickey stared at Ian for a moment. Then he said, “That’s—I didn’t know you were twenty-two.” He frowned. “That’s weird, isn’t it? Do we need to go over our basics?”

Ian shrugged. “I didn’t know that you lived in the apartment above here, so I think we’re on pretty equal grounds.” He squinted at Mickey. “You can’t be much older than me.”

“Only a year,” Mickey said, and Ian thought, _Better than my previous track record_. Ian straightened in his seat, vaguely aware that Mickey was talking but blatantly aware of his own, drunken thoughts. Ian couldn’t believe he just thought that—it wasn’t like he had an actual crush on Mickey or anything. Mickey was just an attractive guy, and Ian could see that, and he was desperately starved of any affection in that way. Having a crush on Mickey would be horrible, Ian would be doomed, and that was so _not happening_.

Mickey snapped his fingers in front of Ian’s face. Ian startled, gripping the counter, and glared at Mickey. “Sorry, you spaced out,” Mickey said, shrugging, the wrinkles at his eyes betraying his amusement. “Maybe we should call it a night.”

Ian sighed. “Yeah, alright.” He watched Mickey gather up the shot glasses and the vodka bottle, getting out of his chair, putting the bottle back, and placing the glasses in the sink. Ian stood and almost tripped, gripping onto the counter to maintain his balance.

Mickey said, “You’re way too drunk to go home right now.”

Ian shook his head. “It’s fine, it’s only a short walk.”

Mickey rolled his eyes, nodding his head towards the kitchen. “There’s no way I’m gonna let you walk home drunk like that. Let’s go, Your Highness.”

Ian muttered, “Do _not_ call me that,” as Mickey led him through the kitchen and to the door in the corner. The staircase behind the door was steep, so that meant they both definitely almost fell about three times, but eventually they made it to the top. Mickey pushed in another door, and Ian stepped into Mickey’s apartment.

It wasn’t as big as Ian thought it might be, considering the size of the restaurant. They had entered the living room, which connected to the kitchen. Ian made his way to the couch, but Mickey grabbed his arm and led him to his bedroom.

“Mickey—” Ian hesitated in the doorway, watching Mickey take off his shoes. “Um, I can really sleep on the couch.”

“Just sleep on the bed, it’s no big deal, I got the couch.”

Oh, god. Ian groaned. “Mickey. It’s your fucking place, sleep on the bed.”

Mickey laughed, picking up some shorts and t-shirt, and threw the clothes at Ian. Ian was surprised that he managed to catch them. “Ian,” Mickey said, turning to face him. “Not only are you a prince, but you’re the prince of my country. I literally cannot stress enough how much it would physically pain me to see you sleep on the couch.”

“Forcing you to sleep on the couch at your own place makes me feel the same way,” Ian said.

Mickey shot him a look. “We can share the bed, then. Go change your clothes.”

Ian waited until Mickey pointed him in the direction of the bathroom and went to change. When he came back, Mickey was already in the bed, and even though there _was_ a lot of space in the bed, Ian wanted to die of embarrassment. He slid into the bed, trying to pretend like this wasn’t horribly awkward, and wondering if he was supposed to say anything. It only got worse when Ian attempted to pull the covers over more, almost pulled them off Mickey, and Mickey said, “ _Ian_ ,” in a very frustrated voice. And then when Ian attempted to move over, he elbowed Mickey in the chest.

“Oh, fuck, sorry!” Ian said. Mickey just sighed, clearly irritated. “Don’t be mad,” Ian said.

“I’m not. Just—go the fuck to sleep.”

Ian lay in the bed, feeling like the silence was very oppressive. He couldn’t get rid of the idea that Mickey was at least very annoyed with Ian, like Ian was a burden. He hadn’t seen Mickey every truly annoyed at him, so Ian couldn’t tell. “Mickey,” Ian said tentatively, seeing if Mickey was awake.

Mickey’s voice was gruff, but he said, “Yeah?”

“Are you mad at me?”

“That you’re keeping me awake right now? Fuck yes.”

Ian licked his lips. “Were you mad at me the other day? When I said that I would pay for your phone bills?” Mickey remained silent, so Ian pressed on, “Because you just stopped texting back, and maybe I’m being fucking stupid, but I wouldn’t want to offend you or—”

Mickey sighed. “Ian, it’s just—you probably don’t realize what you’re doing, but . . . you need to realize the difference between helping out and taking control. I’m not . . . we’re not, any of us, Svetlana and Mandy and I, we’re not things you can throw money at. And it was a petty thing for me to stop talking to you over, but it’s still—it still happens.”

“Oh.” Ian bit his lip. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just—like I said, work on it. A little.”

“Right.” Ian turned over on his side, pulling the sheet tighter around his shoulders. “Goodnight, Mickey.”

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

* * *

Ian woke up in the morning with a slight headache. He groaned against the morning light, turning over on his side to face away from it, when he realized that he wasn’t in his own bed. He remembered where he was, relaxed, and then realized that Mickey wasn’t in the bed. Ian saw a clock on the bedside table—the clock read ten. Ian sat up. “Fuck,” he muttered, moving out of the bed. Just as he’d gotten out of the bed and was looking for his clothes, Mickey walked in.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake,” Mickey said, smiling at him. Mickey didn’t seem too tired, and he hadn’t changed out of his sleepwear, so Ian assumed that he hadn’t been too far behind Mickey in waking up. “I have coffee ready if you want.”

“Well—” Ian considered, glanced at the clock again (it was 10:17!) and said, “I think I should be going. Fiona might be worried about me, and who knows if they need me. So, um.”

“Alright,” Mickey said, seeming totally unfazed. Ian felt a little relieved by that, at least. “You should probably keep those on,” he added on, gesturing to the clothes Ian were already wearing. “Walking outside in your fancy suit . . . you’d be pretty obvious. You can just keep wearing those and bring them back the next time you come over.”

Ian was pleased that it was so obvious that Ian would be coming over soon that Mickey didn’t even have to worry. He nodded his head, folding his clothes under his arm, and picked out his phone from his jacket pocket. When he saw that he had about five missed calls from Fiona and Lip—five phone calls _each_ —he winced.

Mickey laughed, making his way into the kitchen. “You in trouble?”

“Definitely.” Ian sighed. “It’s alright. As long as I haven’t gotten into the paper in any way, it’ll only be a thirty minute lecture.”

Mickey snorted from where he was pouring coffee into a thermos. “Sometimes your life doesn’t even seem real to me,” he said, screwing the cap of thermos on.

Ian took the thermos from Mickey, giving him a grateful smile. “Thanks,” he told Mickey, and then added on, “For everything. For offering me to come over, for listening to me talk, for letting me stay for . . . god, just for everything. Thank you so much, it really—it really _does_ mean a lot to me.”

A small smile appeared on Mickey’s face, but it seemed much more genuine than if Mickey had grinned. “Ian, it’s no problem,” Mickey said, nudging Ian with his shoulder. “Get out of here before your lecture turns into thirty- _five_ minutes.”

Ian laughed, said, “I’m going, I’m going,” and went back down the narrow stairs into the kitchen.

On the way back to the palace, sipping the coffee from the thermos and holding his clothes tightly under his arm, Ian reflected back to Mandy saying, “ _You know we love you_ ,” and he thought that it was true. Ian just had to look out for more than their words—he had to look for their actions, too.

* * *

Ian walked back into the palace with what he almost considered fanfare. Guards at the gate immediately surrounded him, escorting him inside the palace and into one of the large sitting rooms. Fiona and Lip were sitting in there, and when Ian walked in, their faces had matching expressions of anger. _Mom and Dad_ , Ian thought, and had to force himself to not laugh.

Fiona quickly took away the desire to laugh anyways. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Lip didn’t say anything, but his eyes traced Ian’s clothes, and Ian knew that he was analyzing everything about Ian. His eyes latched onto the thermos. “Did you drink last night?”

Ian tilted his chin up—he really had nothing to be ashamed of. He _wouldn’t_ feel ashamed of it. “Yes,” he said.

Fiona turned her head to the side, briefly closing her eyes, and Lip got up, snubbing the cigarette he’d been smoking on the side table. “Classy, Ian,” Lip said as he walked past, and Ian thought _fuck you_ to Lip’s back because Lip had no idea what happened last night.

When Fiona and Ian were alone in the room, Ian waited until she said something.

Fiona sighed. “Ian, I don’t even know where to begin.”

Ian crossed his arms. “We could skip the entire thing.”

Fiona didn’t smile, but she stood, brushing her shirt, her mouth twisting bitterly. “No, we really can’t,” she said. “Ian, your behavior has gotten out of hand.”

“Out of hand?” Ian repeated. “Nothing bad happened—”

“You _left_ last night and no one knew where you were,” Fiona snapped, straightening. “And when we called you, you wouldn’t answer. You went missing, Ian. You were dead silent for almost ten hours. This is unacceptable! You’re a prince, you have duties, you have an image, and you can’t just go running off when things don’t go your way!”

Ian grit his teeth, forcing himself not to snap at her, because she didn’t know what happened. “No one saw me,” he said, attempting to keep his voice calm. “There isn’t going to be anything about me in the papers, there aren’t going to be any rumors, and as far as anyone knows, I came back and stayed with you guys, here, in the castle.”

“It’s more than that,” Fiona said, her tone filled with disappointment. “It’s the fact that you left without telling anyone. The fact that you snuck out, without guards, and didn’t have anyone around you for ten hours. Something bad could have happened to you and we wouldn’t have known!” Fiona shook her head, closing her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them, she said in a much calmer tone, “We’re not gonna allow this for much longer. Your bodyguards will be reinstated.”

Ian’s stomach dropped. The entire idea of having a person trailing him—maybe even more than one person—made his chest hurt. “No,” Ian said. Fiona’s shoulders straightened, but Ian repeated, “No. No. Fuck no. I won’t allow you.”

“You’ve proved that you can’t—”

“Fiona, _no_.” Ian’s voice sounded shaky to his own ears, and he hoped that he wasn’t going to cry. “Please. I can’t have them follow me around everywhere, I can’t have them know where I go—I need some aspect of my life that’s _mine_ —”

“They won’t say anything, Ian,” Fiona interrupted.

“I won’t allow it,” Ian said again. “You can—this whole fucking royalty bullshit—you’ve taken so much from me. You took my privacy away from me, Fiona. It took away my dreams in the army, it took away that future that I’d planned since I was thirteen. You took my school, you take my image, you take my words and my face and my fucking personality . . . fuck, Fiona, you took my god damn sexuality! You can take it all—but you can’t have this. I won’t let you. You _cannot_ have this.”

Fiona looked torn, spreading her hands out. “What do you want me to do, Ian? You can’t just run off without consequences—”

“I didn’t do that much wrong, Fiona,” Ian said. “Lip is running off to who knows where and I don’t see him getting bodyguards trailing after him!”

“You know it’s a different situation,” Fiona said, even though it really wasn’t. She must have noticed that Ian was going to laugh at that, because her mouth became a firm line, stern, motherly. “Lip at least always comes back, Ian, and he’s acting normally—yesterday you disappeared to your rooms and then disappeared when you got here—and I’m worried about where you’re going—”

Ian broke out laughing then. The hypocrisy—did Fiona know where Lip was going?—was almost too much. “Fine,” Ian said, feeling anger spike up in him. “You want to know what happened? Lishman cornered me in that dark room and tried to have sex with me. When I refused, he tried to blackmail me.”

Fiona looked stricken, and her mouth dropped open. “Ian—”

“I ran away because I felt sick to my fucking stomach—obviously, you know why.” Ian took a deep breath. “When I got here, I left to the place I go. You want to know about it? It’s in the inner city, so it’s only about twenty minutes away. I meet with three people—a guy and two girls. The two girls are almost dating, one of the girls is the sister to the guy, and they’re all my age. I just talk with them, Fiona. I’m their friend, they support me—you guys do, too, don’t give me that look, but I’m not a _prince_ to them, Fiona. I’m just Ian.”

Fiona was silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the clothes Ian was holding. “You’re not just Ian,” she finally said. “You can’t play pretend. Ignoring the royal side of you when you’re with them—it doesn’t disappear, you’re just pushing it down.” Ian clenched his fingers into the clothes, gripped the thermos tighter, and pushed down the desire to yell. “It doesn’t work like that,” she said, “and if they’re ignoring that part of you, too, then they don’t really know who you are.”

Ian had nothing to say to that. He looked away and said, “I do all my work. I help you out at council meetings. I give my insights, I help out around the palace, I help with Debbie and Carl and Liam. I do my part. You left me in the dark about the army getting involved with the Lishman’s. Lip is the one who isn’t around to help you.” Ian tapped his fingers lightly against the thermos. “Try a better tactic next time, Fiona. I’ve been doing my duties as a prince. Let me have my freedom the way you let Lip have his.”

Fiona deflated a bit, and Ian wished he didn’t have to hurt her so badly in order to get what he wanted. Ian nodded his head to signal his leave, but before he could fully turn his back to Fiona, Fiona said, “Ian, why didn’t you tell me?”

Ian stopped, looking back to her. “Tell you about what?”

“About Lishman,” she said. She looked sad, although Ian could tell she was trying to hide it. He knew what she was saying: _why couldn’t you tell me, but you could tell those other people?_

Ian didn’t know what to tell her. A joke wandered its way on his tongue, but Ian didn’t let it pass. It wasn’t the right time. He almost told her the truth— _I couldn’t have you disappointed in me again, I never wanted to see that expression on your face again_ —but instead he said, “It wasn’t you, Fiona.”

Fiona nodded her head, but Ian could see how Fiona only did it to cover her disappointment. “Alright, go,” Fiona said, “but this conversation isn’t over. I’m going to need to know your whereabouts much more often now.”

Ian nodded, feeling much more drained and exhausted than when he’d walked in, and left the room. He was disappointed to find that the thermos has mostly gone lukewarm, so he drank it quickly. When he arrived at his rooms, he locked the doors and threw himself on the bed. Mickey had texted him: _got home safe?_

Ian replied _yes_ and plugged his phone in. He thought about everything he’d told Mickey last night and closed his eyes, wishing he’d known to keep his mouth shut. Everything felt like a mess, spilling out and taking control, and Ian didn’t know how to fix any of it.

Someone pounded on his door. “Ian?” Carl’s voice said. “Are you there?”

Ian sighed, but he answered, “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Are you good for training right now?”

It was the last thing Ian wanted to do, but he drank the rest of the coffee from the thermos and said, “Yeah, coming,” as he pushed himself off the bed.

* * *

Ian was watching TV with Debbie and Liam in Liam’s room when Mandy called. Ian glanced at his siblings. Liam seemed engrossed in _Bob’s Burgers_ , and Debbie was engrossed in her phone, but Ian took the phone call outside of the room anyways.

“Hey, what’s up?” Ian said when he answered.

“You answered!” Mandy said, and Ian could tell from her excited tone that she was smiling. “You’re not answering to tell me that I shouldn’t call, right? That would make me fucking sad.”

“No, I answered because that’s usually the desired result when one calls, and answering is the polite thing to do,” Ian said dryly.

Mandy laughed. “I would say fuck you, but I think I deserved that one. So since you had time to answer this phone call, would you happen to have time to come hang out right now?” There was a small crunching noise on the other side. “I decided to take work off today, but I don’t want to be alone, and since Mickey and Svetlana are obviously busy—are you free?”

Ian did a quick mental check of everything he’d done today, if he had anything left to do, and told her, “I’m totally free. How soon do you want me over?”

“Right now, damn it. Are you already on your way?”

Ian laughed. “I have to actually put on shoes, but then I should be over. Oh—I might have to text my sister, so that should delay me a minute or so. Is that okay with you?”

“Asshole,” Mandy said fondly. “Are you going to tell me that your mom said you can’t come over?”

Ian rolled his eyes. “That would probably be Fiona,” he said, trying to ignore the small, awful ache he always got whenever he thought about Monica too much. He knew Monica would’ve never said no to Ian going out with his friends, but then he also hadn’t seen her in a couple of years. “I’m coming over, text me your apartment address and stuff.”

“Alright, I’ll send it over your way. See you soon!”

Ian pocketed his phone and stuck his head into the door. “Hey,” he said, waiting for both Debbie and Liam to look at him. “Are you good if I leave?”

Liam nodded, but Debbie narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going?”

Ian told himself not to roll his eyes. “I’m going out with friends. Are you okay with watching Liam?”

Debbie nodded her head, turning back to her phone screen. “Sure, it’s not like I’m doing anything else,” she said.

“Liam, you’re good?”

Liam stuck his hand in the air, his fingers arranged in the thumb’s up gesture. “All good!” he said. Ian smiled and closed the door behind him as he left, already taking his phone out to text Fiona his plans.

Ian called Mandy again when he was close to her apartment. “Just come and get me,” he said, “because I will spend way too long trying to figure out how to get into the apartment, and everything will just be easier.”

“But I love seeing you struggle.”

“ _Mandy_.”

“Alright, I’ll actually get up. This is how you know I like you.”

Mandy was waiting outside of the apartment when Ian got there, and she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. It was right on the corner of the street that The Setting Sun was on, and it was probably a three minute walk over to the restaurant.

“So, why did you skip work today?” he asked as they rode up in the elevator.

Mandy groaned. “I was really not feeling it today. I woke up and just thought no. So I called it in to Mickey, he complained, I told him to shut up, and he agreed.” They arrived on the fourth floor, and Mandy grabbed his hand again as she pulled him out. The apartment building was one of the older buildings in the inner city, one that was made years ago but refurbished with modern appliances and the like. Ian liked the old feeling of the brick walls, how the doors had faded wood or chipping paint. Mandy let him into her apartment, and it was slightly bigger than Mickey’s had been, but it was still similar. The kitchen was open, connecting to the living room, and there were two separate bedroom doors. Mandy collapsed on the couch, where a blanket and pillows had been discarded, and she grabbed a bag of pretzels. She motioned for Ian to join her, and Ian fell back onto the couch too.

“Holy shit,” he said, looking at Mandy.

She grinned. “I know. Most comfortable couch ever, right?”

“Yeah. Where did you guys get it?”

Mandy chewed on some pretzels while she spoke. “When Mickey and I first moved in, one of our neighbors was redoing their entire apartment. We gave them some money for this couch and a dresser or two, and they just gave it to us.” Mandy shifted on the couch, placing a pillow behind her. “I’ve fallen asleep on this couch more times than I can count.”

The couch was blue, soft and plush, and Ian ran his hand up and down the fabric to watch it change shades. A piece of information she’d said flagged at his attention. “Wait,” Ian said, lifting his head up (seriously, this couch was so fucking comfortable), “when you and Mickey first moved in? He didn’t originally move above the apartment?”

Mandy shook her head, offering the pretzel back to Ian. Ian stuck his hand in the bag and pulled some out. “So Mickey and I got out of our shit home the second I graduated high school—we’d been saving money for months without our dad knowing, and we came here because . . . I don’t know. We were dreamers or something, and the inner city has always seemed so much better than where we were from. We walked into The Setting Sun—it was owned by this guy named Bram—and we applied for jobs. Bram took both of us on, God knows why, and we moved into this apartment.”

“But you and Mickey own The Setting Sun,” Ian said.

Mandy kicked at him with her foot. “Don’t interrupt me! So we worked there for about three years, and Bram became some sort of pseudo-father to us—seriously, Ian, he was the coolest. We didn’t want to work anywhere else because we loved him so much. Anyways, in the third year, he said he wanted to move—his children live in another area, and he wanted to be closer to his grandchildren. He was secure with his money, and he could still get another job if need be . . . but he didn’t want The Setting Sun to just be thrown away. He’d ended up owning the restaurant in a poker bet, he told us. He loved it but . . . None of his family wanted to run the restaurant.” Mandy smiled, eyes staring at Ian’s hand, her smile wistful. “So he gave it to us. Like, full on. We all cried like babies.”

Ian raised an eyebrow. “Even Mickey?”

“Yes, even Mickey,” Mandy said, kicking him lightly with her foot again, and Ian caught her ankle with her hand. “So Mickey and I took over the restaurant after all the paperwork, and once Bram left, Mickey moved into the apartment. And once he moved out, Svetlana moved into this place, because we were all friends by then, and it was ridiculous for her to pay for her own apartment.”

Ian pointed to the two bedroom doors. “So, do you guys actually have different rooms, or . . . ?”

Mandy leaned over and slapped Ian on the arm. Ian burst out laughing. “Dickhead,” she said, leaning back against the pillows. “Yes, we have separate rooms. Did Mickey tell you to ask me that? He used to always ask that.”

Ian raised his hands. “I thought of it all on my own.” He took another pretzel. “So, who has the alcohol license?”

Mandy laughed. “Guess.”

Ian looked from her to the pretzel bag, reflected on Mickey and Mandy, and said, “Mickey.”

Mandy narrowed her eyes at him. “You totally guessed at random.”

“But was I _right_?”

“Whatever. Yes, Mickey has the alcohol license,” Mandy said, “but I have the business degree to make us look good.”

Ian laughed. “Who has the sandwich license?”

Mandy kicked him again.

“I actually didn’t know that Mickey lived above the restaurant until three days ago or so,” Ian said. “Or that he was a year older than me. That makes you the same age as me, right?”

“Yeah, same age,” Mandy said. “And Svetlana is two years older, so we’re all pretty close.”

“It’s nice,” Ian told her, smiling. “I usually just had Lip, you know? But now I have you guys.” Maybe Ian should have told Fiona that—it would have resonated much deeper with her. He thought she might understand that.

Mandy smiled at him, scooting closer so that their legs crossed over each other. “I’m glad we’re hanging out outside of the restaurant,” she said. “I was insanely jealous of Mickey when he told me and your guys’s bonding night the other night.”

“If getting drunk constitutes as bonding, I’ve bonded with too many people that I didn’t want to bond with.” Ian knew Mandy meant hanging out in general—Ian felt certain that Mickey hadn’t actually told Mandy any specific details. Ian nudged Mandy’s hip with his foot. “Besides, I say way too much when I’m drunk.”

Mandy snorted, throwing a pretzel at him. Ian caught it and threw it back, and Mandy glared at him when it hit her on the side of the head.

“Don’t blame me, I was trained to have good aim,” Ian said. Mandy snorted, so Ian insisted, “I was.”

Mandy just gave him a skeptical look, brushing crumbs off her clothes.

“I trained for the army,” Ian said, taking the bag from her and placing it on the coffee table, since Mandy couldn’t reach it. Mandy gave him a questioning look when he’d placed the bag down, so Ian elaborated: “I’ve been training since I was thirteen. When I was younger, we would be given tours of the army, and the guards were always kind to us, and all I fucking wanted was to get in . . . So when I was thirteen I began training. Just small stuff, you know. People were excited that a prince was getting involved in the army. But all I’ve gotten is rejected.”

Mandy raised an eyebrow. “You can get rejected from the army?”

“You can when you’re a prince,” Ian said, and he couldn’t quite keep the bitterness out of his tone. “They don’t want to be held responsible if I die or something . . . Whatever their reason, it’s bullshit. And it’s my third time getting rejected, so.” Ian lifted one of his shoulders in a shrug. “It fucking sucks, getting torn down like that. Fiona and Lip don’t really understand, not like I wish they could, but they’ve tried their hardest.”

“Why the army?” Mandy asked, shifting to face Ian more directly.

“It was just . . . something I was good at. Fiona was always praised for being the perfect princess, always there for mom and dad and her siblings, always quick to adapt to situations. Lip was the smart one, and he couldn’t get enough praises. I was just . . . there, it felt like. But being in the army was something I could do. It was respectable, it was something attainable, and it was something I was good at. I’ve spent so much of my life focused on it that now . . .” Ian shook his head, giving Mandy a wry grin. “When you called, asking if I was busy—I’m literally not busy at all anymore. I read Fiona’s Council meeting notes, and I give my input, and I watch my siblings and go to whatever dinners they want me to attend . . . but I have nothing to do. Council meetings aren’t held that often, and there’s nothing else for me to spend my time on. It’s why I’ve spent so much time with you guys.”

Mandy made a small “Hmm” noise. “You can’t find anything else to do?” she asked. At Ian’s look, she laughed, saying, “Not because I want you to hang around us less, but just so you can keep busy. Surely there’s something you can do.”

“I mean . . .” Ian let out a frustrated noise. “The only Gallagher who really does shit is Fiona, and that’s because she’s the queen. The royals aren’t just figureheads, but if you’re not the royal, then there’s nothing for you to do, really. That’s why I was so interested in the army, because I could be busy and involved in the government at the same time.”

“What did other people do, then?” Mandy asked. “Like your mom or your dad—sorry, I don’t know who was the royal here—but whichever one wasn’t born into it, surely they did something?”

“My mom,” Ian said, his voice coming out neutral, and he was rather proud of that. “She was just someone that caught Frank’s eye and never left. But when she became queen, she started all these projects. I can’t even give you a solid number, because she started so many. She would start them and drop them just as quickly. She always had a new idea, and they were exciting, but somewhere in development, she just . . .” Ian stopped, unable to go on, because he didn’t want to get into Monica never taking her meds, didn’t want to get into the manic and depressive episodes, didn’t want to get into the fact that it wasn’t just her projects that Monica abandoned. “Your answer is yes,” Ian said to Mandy, making his voice firmer. “So my complaining is really unfounded.”

Mandy laughed. “Well, your boredom and lack of stuff to do is unfounded. But the army stuff, that’s pretty shitty.”

Ian snorted. “Yeah, you’re telling me.”

He could see Mandy watching him, and she probably guess that it was more than Ian was telling her, but she only nodded and kept quiet. After a moment, she said, “It’s a pity.”

“What?”

“That you’re not in the army,” she said, grinning at him. “You’d look really hot in a uniform.”

Ian laughed. “I _do_ look hot in a uniform, thank you very much.” Mandy covered her mouth when she laughed. “But you’re right—the official uniform for the National Army, it’s much better. Professional. I’ve always liked them.”

“Yeah, _professional_ is the word I was gonna use, too,” Mandy said, her expression completely serious. Ian raised his eyebrows at her, and she dissolved into giggles. “Come on, let’s watch a movie,” she said, reaching for the TV remote. “I’m in the mood to laugh some more.”

Ian settled back into the couch more, hooking his ankle over Mandy’s, but he didn’t really focus on the movie that much. He had too many ideas swirling around in his head.

* * *

When Ian returned to the palace right before 10 p.m., he went straight to his room and opened up his laptop.

He found the Head of the National Army’s email address buried under emails he hadn’t looked at in ages, and before he could chicken out of it, he began to write. He knew it was a bit rambly, probably not his most professional letter he’d ever written, and definitely had undertones of anger, but it was a pretty good argument besides the fact, one that the Head couldn’t ignore. He listed why he thought their reasons for not allowing him in the Army were bullshit, gave a long paragraph of why Ian deserved it, and then, just because he was feelings specifically spiteful, added a link at the bottom that gave the Head all of Ian’s paperwork.

It was his old one, but there was no way he was redoing it. He had already proved he was ready to be in the Army, he just had to convince them to let him.

After he checked for any other mistakes, Ian hit send and pushed away from the computer, feeling energy course through him.

He didn’t fall asleep that night until close to midnight.

In the morning, he shoveled breakfast down his throat, leaving in about five minutes, and made his way to the Royal Library over on the West End.

The librarian, Linda, looked fairly unimpressed that Ian walked in, leaning away from the computer and resting her elbows on the counter.

“Your Highness,” Linda said, smiling politely, “and not of the Lip Gallagher kind. What brings you to my end?”

Ian had known Linda since he was little, so he was used to her prickly manner. “You have access to the archives, don’t you?”

Surprise flickered on Linda’s face. “Yes, I do.”

Ian licked his lips, wishing that he hadn’t eaten so quickly. He almost felt sick. “I want to reopen all of the projects that Monica started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](http://montygreening.tumblr.com/) is here if you want to see updates on this fic or come and chat!

**Author's Note:**

> I really feel like this needs explanation or some type of background, because my title may be slightly confusing (& horrible, lbr). So here's a tiny history lesson: 
> 
> King James I of England was gay. Notoriously gay. He had "favorites," because history can't say he's gay, and one of these favorites - the favorite of his favorites, if you will - was George Villiers, the Duke of Buckingham. They were VERY GAY. James (in)famously said: "Christ had John, and I have George." They wrote love letters to each other, referring to each other as spouses, lovers, etc., and James literally died with George at his side. They were, like, seriously in love. 
> 
> Supposedly, James I and George met at Apethorpe Hall. Mickey and Ian meet at The Setting Sun. 
> 
> Title of fic? Setting Sun Hall. LAME AS FUCK, I KNOW. History is awesome though.
> 
> Also, yes, while Mickey and Ian hardly interacted this chapter, it's gonna happen . . . trust me . . . 
> 
> Come chat with me! [my tumblr!](http://montygreening.tumblr.com) hit me upppppp


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